


Redeemers

by eclectify, RikkiTikkiCathy



Series: Makers [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Caning, Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Semi-Public Sex, Slash, boot kink, friends who fuck, secondary relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-07 05:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 87,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4250544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eclectify/pseuds/eclectify, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RikkiTikkiCathy/pseuds/RikkiTikkiCathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and Fitzwilliam had come to Tevinter to effect change, to redeem his homeland. </p><p>As if their goals hadn't been unattainable enough. It wasn't enough for Dorian and the Inquisitor to come to Tevinter and start playing politics. That wasn't suitably complicating their lives. No, now there were new rifts opening, magic was being unpredictable, the slave trade was in an upswing, and a dozen other things to help fill in the gaps.</p><p>They'd expected double-dealings, the drudgery of politics, and bloodshed. It was the rest of it that was giving them trouble.</p><p>The world was changing. Could they change with it? Or would it tear them apart in the process?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I would be deeply remiss if I didn't take the time to thank all the people who are making this possible. There are tons. 
> 
> Eclectify, for one should get a consultant credit, if not a co-author credit. And she /certainly/ gets an artist's credit.  
> Check her out at: eclectify.tumblr.com
> 
> Enchant, has spent hours helping me untangle the very complex plot I am weaving.
> 
> The ladies in my writing group, Shadow, Waffles, Murt, Hatse, Chant; they all kept me blissfully closer to sane than I otherwise would have been. As well as providing me with, shall we say, pleasant diversions in the chat box. 
> 
> And Nick, of course, my editor. The last line of defense between my typos and you lovely readers!
> 
> Lastly, all of you. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Redeemers: Part 3 of the Makers Series

Chapter 1:

 

Ataashi stood on a dark street, leaning against a rough wooden wall, in a particularly rundown corner of Minrathous. It seemed his contact had a penchant for the dramatics of his trade – which was basically a lit beacon stating the consumer had never done this before. Most of his contractors preferred to meet in private rooms in some tavern. Generally, the chosen locale was well and away from their manors, as if they thought that would be enough to disguise their identities. Too bad for them Ataashi was a man with rules. He never took a job until he knew with whom he was dealing. Not that they knew he knew, most of the time. It was better to have information than reputation. Though, he supposed, preferably one would have both.

A cloaked figure turned the corner and approached him. “A nug in summer,” he said, leaving the ending open for response. It was the first half of the call phrase Ataashi had given to his handler for this meeting. The process was ridiculous and entirely too dramatic, like something out of a cheap play. It was meant to confirm his identity. There were easier ways, _better_ ways, but the Vintish did like their theatrics. He, like many of his colleagues, enjoyed crafting the calls and responses to be as ridiculous as possible.

Ataashi leaned, casually tipping himself forward to stand before the cloaked man. “Tans his own hide,” he said, book-ending the call. “What can I do for you?”

The figure cleared his throat uneasily. “Sulla Cervidus,” he said in a tight voice. “Do you know him?”

“I know _of_ him, “Ataashi replied with a shrug.

The consumer shifted from foot to foot. He played with the well-manicured fingernails which tipped his soft, pale hands. Those were the hands of a man who had never done a day of work in his life. Judging from how restless he was, Ataashi guessed that life had been short as well. Most of the seasoned magisters were old hands at contracting assassinations – very business-like, casual even. Just another transaction. The boy, on the other hand, was pitching his voice low, trying to sound older, or maybe disguise his identity. The assassin couldn’t _quite_ tell which. Regardless, those traits alone put the boy on a short list. Only seven magisters had been newly appointed by the Archon, having recently come of age, their fathers stepping down in spirit, at least, if not in actuality. If Ataashi coupled that information with the gold-trimmed navy cloak the kid wore? That list was cut down to two – Vel Vestinus or Herius Iulianus – whose house colors fit the bill.

“I’d like him … taken care of…” His voice went up on the end, making a question of the request.

Ataashi let out a menacing chuckle, let it roll low and opaque like fog from the sea. The boy jumped slightly. It was terribly satisfying. “Forgive me,” he said gruffly, “but you don’t sound sure that my services are what you require.”

“Ah,” the boy stammered, “I-I’m sure.”

“You know my reputation, yes?” Ataashi asked. He began circling the boy, like predator and prey. The boy swallowed audibly and managed a nod. His guard was going up, trying to convince himself he was in control. Sooner or later they all fell back on that. “Then you’ll know,” he said, continuing his prowl, “I don’t take just any contract. You’ll need to make your case.”

The boy nodded again (Maker, could he do _anything_ else?) and reached under his cloak. Ataashi stopped at the boy’s back and, before the child had even completed his gesture, pressed the tip of one of his blades to his back, just left of his spine and three fingers above the curve of his backside. The boy froze.

“I am operating,” Ataashi said smoothly, “under the impression that you are retrieving some sort of evidence with which you might make your case and _not_ reaching for a weapon. This assumption is the only reason you continue to have no more holes in your body than when you came into this world. Are we clear?”

“You-you’re threatening me?” he asked in a voice gone high and loud with panic. It cracked at the end, providing the assassin with the final bit of information he required to complete the puzzle. Only Vel Vestinus was still youth enough for his voice to break – the pubescent give away. The other option, Herius Iulianus, had blossomed into manhood early, and had thusly developed a deep, even baritone.

“Just being cautious,” Ataashi replied in a voice that _dripped_ indifference. “In my line of work you’re either cautious, or you’re dead.”

He could feel the boy shaking with anger now, the small tremors vibrating the blade. “My father could have your head if I so much as _asked_ ,” he spat. The assassin shook his head. Poor boy, more balls than brains.

Ataashi laughed huskily in the boy’s ear, as if that attempt at intimidation was the most amusing thing he had heard all night. “He wouldn’t even know which head to cut off,” he said smugly. He heard the boy draw another deep breath, ready to argue further. Ataashi twisted the dagger slightly and he could see the subtle shift in the boy’s stance. His body was flooding with adrenaline, making ready to fight or run. Both of which would likely get the boy dead. Ataashi sighed and sheathed the dagger, sliding it home with the calming, familiar sound of steel on suede. “Calm yourself, Vel of house Vestinus. I am a reasonable man. I know that threat was born of the foolishness of youthful pride. I shall not hold it against you.” He returned to stand facing the boy and waited, hand out, for the forgotten evidence.

Vel’s free hand lifted and pulled back the hood revealing a young face with generous stubble and an expression of awe. “Who told you,” he asked.

Ataashi smirked. “ _You_ did, my lord. A dozen different ways.” He waggled his fingers. “The evidence?”

Vel looked away, confusion coloring his features, but his hand emerged from the cloak and handed the man a sheaf of papers. Ataashi moved to a nearby window and read them in the dim light which fell from it. He’d give the boy this, he’d done his due diligence. Contained within were a handful of lesser charges, things which would never be brought to bear against a magister, and a single list of names without heading or explanation. He held it out to Vel. “What’s this?”

The boy’s face went pale, the pink rushing out of his olive skin leaving him looking positively green. “It’s a ledger,” he said in a wobbling tenor. “A-an accounting.”

“Of?” Ataashi asked leadingly. It was a question designed to see how the boy would react more than for information about the paper – he knew what this was. He’d seen his share of Sanguine Slates. They were relics of a time when human lives had been just one more item on a quartermaster’s inventory. Largely, the official stance of the Tevinter Imperium was that such lists no longer existed. And _of course_ that was their stance, because even though the entirety of _Thedas_ knew the Vintish indulged in blood magic, the Magisterium still openly condemned and denied it except for uses they deemed “moderate.”

In the brevity of the one season he had been taking contracts Ataashi had seen six Slates. The mere sight of this one filled him with righteous anger. It was only thanks to his training that he was able to focus that anger and keep a calm mask of indifference. The minute someone connected the lists to his decisions, with which jobs he accepted, was the minute he’d start seeing forgeries. Low-life members of the Altus would begin presenting him with false Slates looking to buy his expertise for the sole purpose of advancing their own political agenda and standing. Thus far he’d turned down every assignment which had been posed to him in that manner. Tevinter liked to kill people as a means to an end. Ataashi was merely fighting back.

“Is this a confirmed list?” The assassin asked in an unruffled, even timber as he replaced the paper in the sheaf.

Vel nodded. “I only listed the names I could confirm,” he assured. “There’s a trail for each one. Money paid for silence or trade. You can check for yourself.”

“Oh,” Ataashi assured, “I _will_.” He tucked the papers under his arm. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you want the fourth most influential magister in the capital dead?”

Vel sputtered. “You have the papers!” He floundered. “You know why!”

“Ha,” Ataashi huffed, amused. “You can’t _really_ think I’m going to believe that? I know you’re young kid, but you’re not a nug-head.” He shook his head at the boy. “No, you have your own agenda or someone is rewarding you for promoting theirs. So…” he trailed off, waiting.

“My first bill is up for a vote,” he sighed, confessing. “It’s a good one: aqueduct expansion to the Lower Ring. It will reduce disease, offer new work, dispose of refuse, basically all the things we take for granted in the Upper and High rings. Of course, by necessity this will also improve the aqueduct systems in the middle ring. I-it’s gained some traction, but the vote is looking like a tie. Sulla Cervidus is the loudest of my opposition. He’s bought at least half the votes against me.”

Ataashia was familiar with the bill and he had to admit it _was_ a good one. Usually when one of the magisters put forth a bill like this one it was riddled with secret agendas. Things no one wanted to pass, but would for fear of the bad reputation voting against a humanities bill would gain them. This bill was straight forward with no secret clauses which made Magister Cervidus’ opposition even more confusing. “Why would anyone oppose a running water bill?” He mused aloud.

“Some of the members of the old guard,” Vel said disdainfully, “seem to think if we don’t keep the Liberati in squalor they will rise up and put us down.”

“Well,” Ataashi considered, scratching at the stubble of his jaw, “they do _wildly_ outnumber you.”

“So do our plow animals,” Vel argued. The assassin hoped the boy was going somewhere pleasant. Comparing people to animals didn’t sit well with him. “But we feed and water them, get them care when they are ill or injured, shelter them from the heat… And as such they do their work efficiently and without complaint.”

Ataashi hid a smirk behind his hand and feigned deep thinking. The analogy was a tad insulting but at least it was well-intentioned. Most of the Alta wouldn’t care about insulting the lower classes _without_ the good intent. _Oh,_ Ataashi thought with wry amusement, _I_ like _this kid._ “When’s the vote,” he asked finally.

“Three day’s time,” Vel replied.

Ataashi let out a soft whistle. “That’s short notice. Wrestled with the hard decision of my services did you?” The boy started to object but the assassin waved his hand dismissively. “You know, of course, word of his demise must get to the Court of Magisters with _at least_ eight hours before the vote so his seat can be filled. And I can’t guarantee how the new magister will vote. If word of Velius’s death does not arrive in time the vote will be cancelled and, since it is fairly obvious _you_ have the best motivation for taking him out, there will be consequences, should that happen.”

He saw the boy’s face as he spoke. He looked ready to deliver a retort somewhere along the lines of “I know how the Magisterium works!” That was, until Ataashi had mentioned consequences.

Vel gulped, eyes wide and worried. “They’ll execute me?”

The assassin could not help the laugh that bubbled out of him, high and short-lived. “Venhedis,” he swore. “No! If they executed every magister they suspected of contracting an assassin the Court would be utterly _barren_. They’ll bury your bill, Vel. You won’t see it again for a decade and only _then_ if you’ve won enough favors.”

“So, what do I do?” the boy asked. “About making sure news reaches the court in time, I mean. What’s to stop his family from hiding the death until it’s too late just to spite me?”

Ataashi grinned. “What do _you_ do, Vel? You pay the extra fees and leave it to me. Sulla Cervidus will meet with a very messy, very _public_ accident. His family will not have the opportunity to delay the information’s spread.”

Vel held out a hand, smiling. “Agreed.”

Ataashi smirked. He really did like the boy. He took the offered hand and shook it, firmly, a single time and then dropped it. “You’ll pay half to the handler now, half when the job is done.” The boy nodded his understanding.

Ataashi turned his back on him and began walking away. He waited until he’d neared the corner and listened for the sound of Vel’s feet shifting in the gravel to take their leave before he turned to look over his shoulder and called back, “Oh, and Vel. You’re new to the court. I’d advise you to keep your nose as clean as possible. Trust me, you don’t want to give someone a reason to bring me a file like _this_ with your name on it.” He heard Vel’s footsteps stop abruptly, and knew his words had hit home. The boy took his meaning. The file he carried wasn’t one of political alliances, or lineages, or money like the files so many assassins took. This file was a file of sins. This was the file that bought _Ataashi’s_ interest.

He let it sit in the air between them for a moment. Then he nodded, and resumed his walk. One corner turned and he was gone, little more than another shadow on a poorly-lit street.

VVV

“Vishante kaffas!” Dorian roared as he ploughed through the doors, slamming them behind him. Servants – well, slaves really, though it seemed off, thinking of them as such after so much time in the south – unfazed by his outburst, came out of the woodwork, taking his cape and papers before scurrying away. It was unsettling really. Even though Dorian had grown up with it he still hadn’t grown accustomed. He was just glad they knew when to be scarce.

Fitzwilliam had likely known he was coming. The Lenen'hima'sa, that magical tie they shared, had probably alerted him not only to the mage’s mood, which had been the first thing they noticed the bond communicated, but also from what direction he was coming _and_ , in a new and exciting turn, how _close_ he was. Yes, the bond was basically broadcasting Dorian’s movements to his lover at every turn. Though it was also showing Dorian his. It seemed his Amatus had spent his evening in the slums.

“Bad night at the office?” Fitzwilliam asked, coming forward to embrace him in welcome as he usually did.

“I loathe politics,” the mage spat, tossing his gloves, black with intricate blue scrollwork, aside on the darkwood table which sat in the middle of the entryway. “If I have to shake one more greased palm…”

“A lot of bribery tonight?” Fitz inquired, smiling, poking fun, but genuinely interested.

“No,” Dorian said, grimacing. “Just a lot of old men using their hands as napkins. I am positively _smeared_ in pig-fat.”

Fitzwilliam stopped in his approach and held out his hands, palms up. “On second thought,” he joked, “I can wait until you’ve bathed.”

Dorian smirked and strode forward, closing the gap between them and wrapping an arm about Fitz’s waist. He pulled their bodies flush and tilted his head down, his own lips brushing lightly across those just below. The kiss was slow and sweet. Dorian could feel the tension easing out of him even as the man in his arms went soft, compliant under his touch. When they parted the mage had to admit he felt better. He always felt better when he could touch Fitz, even if it was brief and clandestine.

“Well,” Fitzwilliam was sighing as he rested his cheek on Dorian’s shoulder, “you seem clean enough after all.”

Dorian chuckled lightly. “Still wouldn’t say no to a bath, however.”

“Good,” Fitz replied. “I had them draw one when I felt you on your way home.”

His eyebrows went up at that. “Did you now?” he asked, genuinely astonished. “You were the one in the slums tonight, I’m willing to bet _you_ were in more need of a bath more than I.”

“I didn’t know you were going to be covered in pork drippings,” Fitzwilliam admitted. “But I could _feel_ you fuming. I was hoping the warm water would… soothe you.”

Dorian couldn’t help the warm smile of affection that crept across his face. The man had likely been out killing someone earlier this evening. But what did he do when he got home? Had a bath drawn for his lover. What odd jumble of pieces made up Fitzwilliam Trevelyan?

Together they moved to the inner chamber and there, reluctantly parted. Fitzwilliam went on into the bathing hollow whilst Dorian moved to the privacy screen and began undressing. Honestly, he didn’t use it for the privacy part, he rather liked showing off for Fitzwilliam. Atop the screen, however, _was_ the place to put clothing you wanted the servants to see to, and _Maker_ , did Dorian ever. He was half-temped just to burn them and be done. He was wearing the usual Vintish garb, all layers and leather and black. It was entirely too warm for this climate. He never really noticed it before, but now the south had ruined his tolerance for the heat. And it was just ridiculous anyway. Yes, the Altus were all mages, they could just cast a spell and cool themselves, but what a boring waste of magic.

As he peeled out of the long robe he came to a decision. He was going to have the tailor up soon. He had some ideas about what he wanted made, and fashion had always been a soothing hobby for him. Maker knew he could use a little more of that in his life, and a little less politicking. He’d have Fitz done too. Perhaps mother would even agree to join. She hadn’t quite warmed up to Fitzwilliam, though Dorian couldn’t figure out why. She swore there was nothing wrong but clearly neither was there something right.

Dorian wrapped the light cotton sheet about his waist and over his shoulder and made his way into the hollow. He expected a bath. What he had not expected were the candles, and the scented oils, and Fitzwilliam, naked, head resting on his hands on the tub’s rim beckoning to him with one crooked finger. “Join me, Serah,” he purred.

Dorian felt an abrupt clench in his groin at the sight and allowed the sheet to fall. Dorian made his way to the basin. Once his feet had halted he leaned down, looking deeply into those brilliant blue orbs. “Maker, Fitzwilliam,” he sighed, smirking, “I love you.”

“Damn straight you do,” Fitz said with a wink. Looking up at him through those lashes. “Now, get in before it gets cold.”

“I’m a mage,” he reminded even as he lifted a leg over and did as he was told. “I can warm the water back up.”

“And risk another hiccup?” Fitzwilliam asked seriously. It was quite unwelcome. “Then we’d have Inquisitor soup.”

Dorian didn’t really want to think about that. Something was going on with his magic and it was most disturbing. He wasn’t really having trouble with casting, but power regulation had gone a bit… well a bit wonky. He had tried to light a lamp the other day and accidently blasted it with a _jet_ of flame. The glass shattered, sending oil splashing across the floor, which then, of course, ignited as well. He’d put it out in a matter of seconds, smothering the flame simply by vacuuming out the air around it, but that wasn’t the point. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

Dorian sat, submerging himself. Displaced water splashed out over the rim and onto the slatted floor below to be recycled into the grey water for the gardens. He slouched, letting it cover his neck and chin until he was little more than hair, eyes, mustache and nose. He felt sulky.

Fitzwilliam made his way across the huge basin of warm water to come up behind the mage, reaching out and pulling on his shoulders. For a second he thought the man intended to dunk him but instead those hands pulled back, bringing Dorian to rest against a warm, hard chest. Hands slid over his forearms, trailing up his biceps before slipping under his arms to hug him closer.

“I talked to Leliana today,” he said as he rested his chin on Dorian’s shoulder. “She said they are still getting reports of new rifts opening all over Tevinter. I’m going to have to go have a proper look soon.” Dorian grunted something noncommittal in response. He didn’t want Fitzwilliam to leave, even for a short time. He was the one bright light in the endless drudgery of the life he had chosen here. “Doe,” Fitzwilliam said slowly, a lilt of worry in his voice. “I think something is very wrong.”

Dorian nodded his head once. He agreed. His magic had been misbehaving since shortly after their arrival in Tevinter, though they had received information that it had been happening before then too. Something was going on, on a larger scale, but none of his research had turned up any promising leads. Truly, the only real clue they had were the rifts. They had expected them all to close, after the defeat of Coryphaeus, but instead new ones were opening. The strangest part of it all, so far, were the demons. Or lack thereof.

In Ferelden the rifts had _poured_ out demons. The new reports marked only a slight increase in demon activity, though there was a huge jump in other strange sightings and events. Fitzwilliam had hypothesized that the southern rifts had had Coryphaeus behind them, driving the demons out into their world. Essentially, the Inquisitor was of the opinion that the demons had not merely found the rifts and wandered out of them. Dorian wasn’t sure if he agreed.

“Leli also plotted the sightings out on a map,” Fitz continued. He released the mage from his embrace, moving around behind him, water sloshing noisily. “She says they seem to be localized. There were only a very few outlying plots. Maybe there’s some sort of, I don’t know, disturbance? Something that’s making them appear _there_.” Fitzwilliam turned back, his fingers diving into Dorian’s hair. He moaned softly as the man began to lather the soap there, his fingers massaging his scalp.

“Mhm,” Dorian managed amidst a string of delighted sounds. “When will you go?”

“Unknown,” he said, scraping his nails slightly. “I have a new contract, so I’ll have to make those arrangements first.”

Dorian felt a hint of anxiety at that. Which of course meant Fitzwilliam felt it too. Blighted bond. “Anything I should know?” he asked, voice tight with the worry he didn’t bother trying to conceal.

Amusement trickled through just before Fitzwilliam spoke, “Yes, actually. Important vote coming on the floor soon. Three days. Has your father secured you a position in the court yet?”

Dorian sighed, wanting to feel annoyed with his lover talking politics whilst they were naked in a warm bath, but the massage did feel rather good, despite the lack-luster conversation. “He says I’m to be appointed soon, but the Archon is dragging his feet over adding seats.”

“Well,” Fitz drawled meaningfully, “now would be a good time for Halward to revisit the idea.”

“Ooooh,” Dorian drawled, interest finally piqued. “Are you assassinating one of the Magisters? Which one?”

“Tsk,” Fitzwilliam chuckled. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Yes, yes,” he sighed. “For my own safety, blah blah blah. But one of these nights you’re not going to come home and I won’t know how to find you or whom to ask and _then_ what? Hmm?”

Fitz dropped a short kiss onto his bare back. “Calm yourself, Serah, all is well.” Dorian huffed, but didn’t argue. “Dunk.” Dorian held his breath and submerged. Fitzwilliam rubbed his hair, rinsing the soap out. When he came back up, wiping water from his eyes, the Herald was speaking again. “Sooner is better than later, Dorian.” He sounded depressingly serious.

“If I agree,” Dorian sighed, shaking some of the water out of his hair, “can we stop talking about work and have some fun?”

Fitzwilliam laughed, a sound that finally brought some joy to the room, and grasped the mage’s shoulders, turning him in the water so that they were face to face. “We have an accord,” he said, grinning like anything.

Dorian leaned forward, love and thankfulness inundating the bond so pervasively that he couldn’t tell from whom it originated, and kissed Fitzwilliam. Moving to Tevinter hadn’t been _easy_ but they had settled in in the last few months. A routine, nearly, had formed. They had a life here, something Dorian hadn’t ever dared dream would happen. It hadn’t been easy, naturally, what with things between his father and him still being so touchy, and his mother was being downright wicked to Fitz for some unfathomable reason, and the work they had come here to do was so hard as to be nearly impossible. But they were here together, and that counted for more than all of it. Together, he knew they were a force – unmatched, unstoppable.

The kiss ended, leaving their faces close and smiling. “So,” Fitzwilliam was asking, “what kind of fun did you have in mind?” He was positively leering at him. Clearly he had ideas of his own.

Dorian smiled wickedly, and enjoyed watching the expression on that face shift. “I was thinking we ought to choose our ensemble for tomorrow’s outing.” Fitzwilliam groaned.

“Do I have to go?” He whined.

“We promised mother we would,” Dorian reminded him, his hands slipping wetly across Fitz’s thigh. “It is best we don’t let her down.”

“But she hates me Dorian,” he groused. “Maker knows why, but that woman hates me. The entire afternoon will be nothing more than her making sharp barbs in my direction, and showing me off to various magisters.”

Dorian could hardly argue opposite. “A promise is a promise, Amatus,” he said, dropping a peck on his cheek. “Think of it as another opportunity to win her over.”

Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes and stood, water cascaded down his body in small rivulets as he stepped from the basin and retrieved a towel. “Last time,” he reminded the mage as he bent over and mussed the moisture from his hair with the cloth, “she made fun of my cuffs. She said they made my wrists look stubby.”

Dorian laughed, standing in the tub and allowing gravity to do some of the work of whisking the water away. “Which is why _I’m_ dressing you this time,” he reminded. Fitzwilliam straightened, turning an intent gaze on Dorian’s form. There was definitely an appreciative glimmer in those brilliant blue orbs when Dorian put his arms akimbo, displaying his assets for the Inquisitor’s perusal. “When I am done with you,” he purred suggestively, “Mother won’t have a single grievance. I promise.”

He stepped from the basin and took the towel from Fitz’s outstretched hand, dabbing delicately at the moisture on his skin. There was heat in the eyes that watched him and he could feel the desire pulsing through the bond. He fixed Fitzwilliam with a stare that was heavy with suggestion. “Shall we?” He asked. Truthfully, he pitied his lover. Dorian was not a man who was easily distracted. Yes, he would indulge, savor every inch of bared skin, but _later._ When his work was done and Fitzwilliam was in need of cheering.

He didn’t wait for Fitz to respond. He just turned, walking naked into their bedchamber. “Come along, Amatus,” he called over his shoulder. His lips twisted in amusement when he heard the skittering behind him, Fitzwilliam trying to focus on anything _but_ what he was seeing, and make his body move.

Maybe he could salvage this night after all.

 

 

A/n: Hello lovelies! Welcome back! I am so, so delighted to be posting Redeemers. Fair warning: this is going to be just a monster of a fic. I am likely going to need a lot of encouragement because this is gonna be a long haul. So please, comment, message, visit my Tumblr (rikkila.tumblr.com) whatever you like. Just make yourself known. I am also notoriously bad at divulging information to people who are being enthusiastic. So... yeah. 

I apologize in advance for the angst in this fic. And the other things you might get mad about... *shifty eyes* 

I also apologize to V-bird who has waited VERY patiently to meet Vanessah Pavus. Sadly, darling, you must wait one more week. But then, I promise, you'll get her.  
  
~Love!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Vanessah Pavus sipped her wine. It was deep red, sweet but not sugary, spiced with something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was quite good. Of course, she had put Dorian in charge of the wine, so she had known it would be. He had an eye for the nuances of it. Not just in the tasting and selecting of it but also the message that selection would send. The wine was fine, but not the best money could buy, conveying to their guests that they were respected, but not esteemed. Why he ever left and joined up with the Inquisition when he so clearly had a gift for rubbing elbows she couldn’t guess. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had known why he left, an event she would _never_ forgive Halward for, and, empirically, she knew why he had stayed. He had found someone worth following, a purpose, and, to her chagrin, he had found love. Not that she hadn’t wanted him to find love, she adored her son, of course she wished happiness for him. Only, he could have had better taste.

Fitzwilliam had some points in his favor – he was from good breeding for one. In Tevinter the standing of your house mattered, but not quite as much as the blood to which one could lay claim. House Pavus had a line which supposedly went all the way back to the first age. Her family had a similar claim, even documentation, but she suspected it had been forged some ages ago. Still, it was basically the only reason she had married Halward, that claim and the promise it gave of a “gifted” child. The _Inquisitor_ , came from a line tracing all the way back to Tevinter, and from that line, she had learned, it went back even further. She’d be surprised if Trevelyan shared the blood of the first Altus, considering he didn’t have the spark, but it was still an impressive ancestry. Not that he could give her nepoti, mind, so it didn’t _really_ matter.

Vanessah felt the scowl twisting her lips as she considered the man her son had brought home. She attempted to smooth her expression into something neutral but she’d never been good at that. Her feelings, particularly ones as strong as these, tended to be shown right on her face, plain to the world. Sometimes that worked to her advantage, because it made people think she was honest, or that she couldn’t lie. She didn’t correct them. It was a valuable tool.

She would endure anything for Dorian but she had received reports, whilst he was away, of the Inquisition and the “magister who took advantage of his connection” with him. Her Dorian would never, but again and again she heard similar tales. And more disturbing ones. Ones that made it clear the so-called Herald was using her son to legitimize his agenda. She did not care for it one bit. It was crass. And then, her darling son had brought him home. She’d take any baggage he came with, if it meant having him in arm’s reach again, but she simply couldn’t stomach the Inquisitor.

It was as if her unkind thoughts had drawn a summoning circle – in strutted the high and mighty Inquisitor. He was standing to Dorian’s right, possibly an intentional statement by her son. Placing the Herald to his left would denote a lesser status. To the right was a wink to his alliance with the Inquisition, as well as to the gossip about how deep that “alliance” ran. Trevelyan, for once, was dressed fabulously. She stared, trying her best to scrutinize, but not a thread was out of place. Dorian pointed over at her and the pair made their way across the room. “Mater,” Dorian said with a sly grin, bowing gallantly and kissing her free hand. She rolled her eyes at him, but couldn’t help the smile that crept over her face.

“Magistra Pavus,” Fitzwilliam said, cutting her a bow and nod that was appropriate for their difference in station, but not exaggerated. She replied with a curt nod, hardly glancing at him. She had to admit, the way he deflated at her dismissal, though nearly imperceptible, brought her a very small degree of amusement.

She turned back to Dorian, “You,” she said accusingly, gesturing to the Inquisitor. “You’re responsible for this, aren’t you?”

Dorian smirked, lifting glasses of wine from a passing slave. He handed one to Fitzwilliam. “Are you asking if I dressed him?” He drawled playfully. “Or if I am responsible for the smile he had before you got to him?”

“Dorian,” she scolded. “That is not appropriate.”

He chuckled to himself, hiding his face behind his wine glass as he drank. “Either way, Mater, the answer is ‘yes’.”

“Well,” she sniffed. “I suppose I can hardly critique your work. Though I still think his wrists look stubby in those cuffs.” She considered tapping her finger to her lips. “Perhaps he just has stubby wrists.”

“I’m right here,” Fitzwilliam grumbled. She continued to ignore him.

“The wine is quite good, darling.” She turned slightly, just a fraction, from the Inquisitor and addressed Dorian. “An excellent choice. I knew you were right for the job,” she lay a hand on Dorian’s perpetually bare shoulder and rubbed it affectionately. “But there’s something in it, isn’t there? Some spice? It’s very complimentary.”

Dorian’s lips curled like a cat who’d cornered a mouse, his mustache twitching, and Vanessah knew she had walked into one of his clever traps, though she could hardly see _what_ it could have been.

“Gingermint,” he said, eyes squinting as he smiled, looking all too pleased with himself.

“Why does that sound familiar?” She said, affecting an air of ignorance. She had a suspicion, but in a rare moment, she actually hoped she was wrong.

“It’s the plant Fitz has been cultivating in the garden of the west wing,” he said slowly. Damn, it was as she’d suspected – Dorian had tricked her into paying the man a compliment. “It was his idea to add it to the wine too, when I brought him to the tasting. Doesn’t it add a refreshing bouquet?” He asked, still smirking that damnable smirk she blamed on his father at every turn, but knew she had seen in her own looking glass.

“Well,” she said, sipping again. “I suppose he did a fine job, though I think it would have complimented the Orlesian nine twenty-three better.” She did _not_ really think that, she just hated having to admit the boy wasn’t a total moron.

“He’s right there Mater,” Dorian said, giving her a pointed look that said ‘you talk to him’ more clearly than actually _saying_ the worlds could do. “You might turn, just a little, and say ‘ _you_ did a fine job.’ Rather than ‘he’.” She glowered at her son, but it didn’t hold much heat. Mostly, she resisted because she didn’t want to see that smug expression of satisfaction on Trevelyan’s face. But Dorian was relentless and at last she sighed and turned.

“Well done, Inquisitor. Such… eclectic tastes,” she gave him a small nod and waited for that self-satisfied look so many men of station got when she paid them a compliment. It was as if they were saying “I know I am amazing. I tolerate your praise.” But that wasn’t what happened. Vanessah watched with mild shock as Fitzwilliam’s face colored, flushing red up the high collar of his suit. He smiled at her but quickly ducked his head in a nod of thanks and, the surprise of all surprises, said nothing more. Though she did catch the delighted smile he shot Dorian, brief and glowing. Dorian’s expression softened and he raised his glass in small toast to the victory, the most affection he dared show, surrounded as they were by the Altus of the Senate.

It would have been delightful to pass the event in the company of her son and away from the pandering members of the court, even if he did come with the Trevelyan boy. Sadly, it was not to be. Dorian was soon approached by Magister Appius. A vulgar rotund man who downright abused his vote every chance he got. Sadly, as Halward had yet to secure Dorian his own seat, her son was forced to pander to him.

“Appius,” Dorian greeted, plastering a smile on his face. “How do you find the accommodations?”

Appius, all gristle marinated in wine grumbled, “They’re satisfactory, though you could have provided a bit more food.”

There was a great deal of food actually, just not an entire meal. It was a mid-day event, after all. Fitzwilliam reached out, placing a lingering touch on the magister’s wrist and leaning in conspiratorially. “I quite agree,” he whispered. Appius, who had a well-known affection for pretty, soft-spoke men, puffed up at the attention. “Though,” the Inquisitor continued, “I’m not sure I should. Your figure is so resilient but mine will just fall apart with all these soirees.”

The compliment was a blatant lie but Appius flustered delightedly all the same. “Nonsense, my boy,” he chuffed. “You’re a figure in this room and you know it.” Trevelyan batted his eyes and looked down coyly. The way the magister brazenly flirted with the Inquisitor came as no surprise to her, nor anyone else in the room, though she did wish Fitzwilliam would be more discreet. Her son’s reputation was at stake after all.

Others bought the Inquisitor’s little routine without thought. A minor member of the nobility, sitting head of the Inquisition? Surely the rumors had been exaggerated. What he presented to them was exactly what they expected to see: a pretty man, with an affable attitude, some charm, some humor, but ultimately empty-headed. And because it was what they wanted to see, they accepted it readily. Vanessah, on the other hand, remained unconvinced. He was _too_ good at it. His flirts were too well placed, his winks too well directed. Even his praise came off as too honest, though it clearly was not.

She walked a little bit away, roaming without purpose, pretending to check on this or that, giving compliments in passing which were, largely, entirely fallacious. It was some time later when she noticed Dorian storming away from the room, into a corner, clearly fuming. Her son never had been good at schooling his expression. If she had to guess she’d say that one of the magisters he had been trying to get an appointment with had put him off again. They were so fond of saying “send a letter to my steward and he’ll put it on the books.” Of course that rarely happened. Agendas were discussed, fought, bartered for, and won in rooms like this.

If Dorian had had a seat he would have something with which to barter, but as things stood he was just one prodigal son, returned with influence and impressive connections, but little to call his own. And so, one by one the members of the Court shuffled him aside like so much mail to be sorted, but later. If she knew her son at all he was fuming about it. He did so hate to be ignored. Better negative attention than none at all, as far as he was concerned. She worried about him, in this moment, but her crossing the room to speak with him would only draw more attention. She hoped he could calm himself.

She was about to turn away when she saw it. The Trevelyan boy was crossing the room. It was impressive really, he was moving so casually that no one really paid him any mind, so when he arrived at Dorian’s side no one, save her, was even looking in their direction.

Naturally, she couldn’t hear them from here but she could see them, tucked where they were under the drooping boughs of a tropical houseplant. First, Dorian started waving his hands, mouth twisting in a way she knew well. Fitzwilliam’s hand reached out to rest on Dorian’s shoulder and the hands calmed. Next, it was clear to her that her son was arguing, explaining why he was upset and, likely, why the Inquisitor ought to be angry too. But Trevelyan just followed up with some remark, smirking playfully, and she watched with awe as Dorian’s lips twitched too.

She had to admit it was nice to see someone could put Dorian at ease. He was clearly still frustrated, but he was no longer gesticulating and sneering. The Inquisitor glanced around briefly, noting no one was looking at them, and then his hand slid up from Dorian’s shoulder to the back of his neck, resting there has he pulled and leaned in, pressing their foreheads together tenderly. It was intimate enough to set tongues wagging, of course they were already wagging, but not blatant enough to be considered proof of anything untoward. There were many among the Altus who would participate in such an act, even in public, should the need arise. It was an ingenious way to implement an affection they largely kept hidden and she couldn’t help but wonder who had devised it.

And then they were breaking apart and easing out of the shadows, smiling and laughing again. That blank sort of smile returned to the Inquisitor’s face. She was certain she’d seen something deeper there only a moment ago…

She shook her head and went back to the guests.

…

Fitzwilliam hated these parties. It was bad enough to be dressed up like a doll, and to be scorned by Dorian’s mother, and to hear the whispers as people passed. Those things were all annoying, but to have to plaster on this mask of vapidity and watch them treat Dorian the way they did? It made his fingers itch for the daggers hidden up his sleeves. Assassining was so much _easier_. He felt his lips twisting and forced them to quirk upward instead, pulling into the pleased smile of someone who never thought too deeply about anything.

Leliana had trained him well, drilled this into him – the Inquisitor was his disguise, he couldn’t let it slip.

Somewhere across the room he spotted Dorian. He was laughing and smiling again. That was good. He had been genuinely worried before. The mage was used to projecting this air of studied indifference. Now that he couldn’t do so anymore he had trouble regulating. It was easy to be dismissive but the mage _cared_ about what he was doing here. So when someone wrote him off he tended to fly off the handle and that wasn’t gaining him the best reputation. So Fitzwilliam had taken him aside, talked him down, reminded him that in the not-so-distant future they would be naked, in their bedchamber, and politics would be the last thing on their minds.

That was a huge part of what Fitzwilliam did at these events. People talked to him. Not only because he was easy to talk to, or because he seemed too dull to understand, but also because he didn’t seem to care. Despite his known association with Dorian they had all decided he had no horse in this race. So he got everyone’s opinion. On _everything_. Sometimes that information even turned out to be useful. Magister Trogus, for example was having serval extra-marital affairs. One of them was a woman. Two of them were men. And one of those three, though he had been unspecific as to which, was also sleeping with Trogus’ wife. It was interesting, to be sure, but not particularly pertinent to his current quest.

Fitzwilliam walked the room aimlessly, allowing this person and that to pull him into their conversation. He never initiated. That would be suspicious. He merely wandered, looking bored and stupid, until someone took notice and invited him in. Of course, he _did_ tend to watch the party-goers for signs. Body language, mostly. You could learn a great deal just observing people. And when the right kinds of signs presented themselves – hunched shoulders, leaning in secretively, a prideful twist of the lips – Fitzwilliam would breeze by, uninterested and unfocused. More often than not he was then welcomed into the circle.

It was the _second_ best way to gather intelligence. The first, of course, being the servants— _slaves_ , he corrected internally.  Most of them were elven though, and extremely wary. Downcast eyes, and slumped shoulders. The small men and women moved with a quiet grace around the room. Until something clattered or someone yelled. Then, on by one, the slaves started, eyes going wide, but looking even more determinedly at the floor. It was just a part of the event, like the food, or the drink… Fitzwilliam took a large gulp of his wine, fighting with his conscience about what was going on in this city. It was hard to pretend all was well, when they were literally surrounded by all that was _wrong_.

He kept his feet moving, his eyes sweeping, his face disinterested.  Damn, his glass was empty. He turned to a passing elf, placing the empty cup down on the tray and reaching for a new one. At that moment, just as his fingertip grazed the cool, smooth crystal, there came a bellowing, “How _dare_ you,” from across the room. Everyone turned to look. Everyone but the slave before him. His eyes stayed down, he froze. But he didn’t jump, or flinch – nothing. A measured calm. That was unusual. Even among the slaves in better houses there was a degree of fear. _Your_ master might be kind to you, but at an event there was little more than a fine to your owner for breaking their property, if the mood struck.

This elf didn’t look afraid. He looked… uncomfortable. There were hints of other things, annoyance, exasperation, anger, but nothing lasted more than a flicker. His face was a carefully crafted mask. His control was impressive. But it was the eyes – blue, smart, attentive – no wonder he kept that gaze so steadfastly fixed to the floor. The hand which did not hold the tray kept twitching. A tick?

Fitzwilliam turned his gaze elsewhere as the chatter in the room settled once more. He could hear Vanessah across the way, “My dear Lars, have you seen the new garden instillation?” Her voice was sweet, charming. “I’m certain you will enjoy it. I finished lacing the magic in it just this morning. Glitters like a humming bird…” and then her voice trail off as she escorted the man outside. That meant, most likely, one of the slaves had done something to offend. Generally, Domina Pavus left her guests to their own devices. She did, however have strict rules regarding treatment of slaves in her home. She dolled it up behind blood being ghastly and hard to clean, but he had her number. Vanessah Pavus didn’t care for the way slaves were treated.

He continued his round, discovering the route Cervidus would take that evening to indulge his horrendous gambling habit, as well as who was to accompany the Magister, what they would discuss at the event, and how many hands he planned on cheating on. Little else compelled him. He was, however, stuck here at least until he could sneak out. And then, depending on what time it was, he might have to head straight into planning and executing an assassination. Which would be, admittedly, delightful fun. Until then, however, he was doomed to be bored.

He kept an eye on Dorian who, to his credit, seemed to be managing much more reasonably. He was even laughing on occasion, and some of them were genuine! The other he kept on the blue-eyed elf slave. The hand which did not balance the drinks continued to twitch, once even reaching as high as his shoulder before the elf caught the action and jerked it back to his side. The elf’s forehead wrinkled and his brows pulled side to side, almost as if trying to ease and itch he couldn’t scratch. His nose, perhaps? That would hardly be an acceptable gesture from a slave serving wine at an event like this one. Or perhaps he’d read it wrong, and the elf was reaching for his hair. It didn’t look quite right on him. Dark and short. It didn’t match his coloring in the least.

Long minutes passed, perhaps even more than an hour, before Dorian slide up beside him smiling like anything. He was, probably, slightly intoxicated. “We should leave,” the mage whispered conspiratorially.

Fitz quirked his head to the side, fighting the grin that threated to break his performance. “And why,” he asked, pitching his voice low, “would you say such a thing?”

Dorian giggled. _Giggled_. “Because I took Placus Cita’s wife to the gardens and convinced her she needed not one, not two, but _three_ of mother’s fixtures and now the man is out for blood.”

Fitz chuckled, but held firm. “I fail to see why that is _my_ problem, Serah,” he whispered back.

Dorian moved closer, invading his personal space, making him feel warm. He could feel the intent of his word thrumming through the bond. “Because if we stay here,” he purred, his hand reaching out and resting lightly against his elbow. Such an innocent touch but it set the Inquisitor’s heart racing. “Mother will discover what I have done, and she will keep me all evening. And that will… interfere with my plans for you, Amatus.”

As it turned out, Fitzwilliam did not require further convincing.

…

They didn’t get far. They ran, laughing like children, down one hallway, around the corner, and then Dorian was backing him up to a wall. His lips descended hot and heavy, even as the mage reached behind him and, with a sweeping gesture, moved the wall hanging. Fitzwilliam pulled away, breaking the kiss to glance behind him.

“An alcove?” he asked, suppressing a sound as Dorian’s undeterred lips slipped down his neck. The mage encouraged him back farther, until they were concealed with in. The hanging fell taking the light with it. Fitzwilliam could barely see.

“Mhm,” Dorian hummed against his throat. “And a poorly hidden one at that. You’ll have to be quiet, Amatus.” There was a playful warning in those words, but the Inquisitor took the bait anyway.

“Quie--?” The word cut off in a strangled gasp as Dorian’s hand slipped lower, cupping the growing bulge in his well-fitted trousers. The mage’s mouth returned to slant over his own.

“Yes, Amatus,” Dorian purred, lips brushing over Fitz’s parted mouth as he spoke. “Shh. Someone,” he trailed his fingertips over the now-aching erection, “will hear you.”

Maker, this was bad. Fitzwilliam swallowed heavily, worried what Dorian had planned. “So what we’re just going to snog in the hallway like a couple of randy adolescents?” The mage chuckled delightedly at his words as deft fingers unsnapped the buttons along the front of Fitzwilliam’s trousers.

“No,” he whispered, voice silky, smooth, and deviant. “No, we are not.”

As the mage sank to squat before him Fitzwilliam realized what was happening. His head rolled back, a deep groan escaping as Dorian pulled the laces behind the un-buttoned flap loose and, in one swift motion, released him. “I haven’t even touched you yet,” Dorian teased softly, his hot breath ghosting across the sensitive flesh of the exposed hardness before him. Fitzwilliam shuddered.

Dorian didn’t waste time, poorly hidden as they were. A wet mouth closed over the head of his cock, threatening to rip Fitzwilliam’s voice from him in a ragged cry. He lifted his fist, pressing tightly against his lips, even as the other hand buried his fingers in the mage’s hair. Dorian didn’t need guidance, he had his tricks, knew his secrets. If this lasted more than a few minutes it was going to be because the mage was a wicked, wicked man.

 _Maker_ , but his mouth was warm. The slip of his lips sliding down made his body quake. His knees went weak when Dorian’s throat relaxed around him, taking his entire length. The mage’s nose was buried in the short-trimmed patch of hair as his hands reached up and took a firm grip on the Inquisitor’s hips, offering much-needed additional support.

He could feel the contraction around him, followed abruptly by the suction as Dorian pulled his head back up, and then the twirl of a tantalizing tongue. He felt the tell-tale warning of his cock twitching. His sack tightened, his head fell forward. He could _just_ see Dorian by the wan light, his head bobbing skillfully, his lips acting as cushion to his teeth and seal for the vacuum his mouth created.

And then, Dorian looked up at him, their eyes locked. And, _Andraste’s silky knickers_ , they were smirking, self-satisfied, positively _daring_ Fitzwilliam’s control. He felt his stubborn streak rise to the occasion, retuning the look with steely determination and shook his head. If the mage hadn’t already busied his mouth he would have grinned and Fitz could tell, just by the way his eyes danced, that this was a challenge he wouldn’t give up easily.

Dorian redoubled his efforts, and Fitzwilliam descended into a fit of whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut tightly against the pure sensation that rocked him. His hips jerked inelegantly but he would not be broken, would not let out the cries he knew Dorian sought. And then one of Dorian’s hands slipped down his hip, his touch vanishing for a short span while his tongue and mouth tormented. He didn’t even notice the fingers between his legs until they were sliding up and back, into the cleft of his ass.

 _He wouldn’t really…_ but he did. A single, somehow miraculously oiled finger, sank into him in a single slow push. A sharp gasp escaped him and Fitzwilliam shoved a crooked finger into his mouth in a useless attempt to resist the pants and whinnies that came without end. Dorian was relentless now, sucking and bobbing, digit pumping, curling to brush over the spot that made him weak.

Fitzwilliam could almost hear that cocky voice whispering to him: _Just let go, Amatus._ Just now, he had to admit he couldn’t remember why he was resisting. A strangled cry ripped from his throat as his fingers grabbed a fistful of Dorian’s, previously, perfectly coifed locks. And that was it, he was falling over the edge, his shaft shooting hot streams of sticky seed as Dorian swallowed, actually pulling back to _taste_ him, as the mage so often did. And, yes, Fitzwilliam’s cries were enthusiastic, appreciative, and dangerously unfettered.

The moment the tremors of blissful aftershock had abated, the Inquisitor’s face was already turning a brilliant red, aware of what had transpired – of the battle he had lost. He was not, however, so distracted as to forget to offer his hand to the mage who squatted before him. Dorian had pulled his finger free at some point, though Fitzwilliam could not, for the life of him, say _when_. The mage took the offered had, licking his lips as he straightened to his full height. “You,” he purred softly, “are delicious.” Dorian kissed him then, slow and sweet, despite the hardness Fitz could feel straining through his trousers.

Fitzwilliam reached down, his fingertips tracing teasingly. He felt the humid air on his face as Dorian let out a slow sigh. But a moment later the mage was removing the wandering hand and returning Fitzwilliam’s softening member to the confines of his trousers. “I can wait, Amatus,” he insisted. The mage rested his head against his lover’s shoulder, nuzzling in a tender moment of pure affection.

It didn’t last long, however. It was unlikely they had gone entirely unnoticed and lingering would be a poor choice. “Come now,” Fitzwilliam chided Dorian as he laced and buttoned the front of his trousers. “You’re a right mess. Make yourself presentable.”

Dorian mock-scowled in the low light, his hands smoothing his hair. “Maybe if someone had a bit less zeal…”

“You’re one to talk,” he chirped back. “With that finger trick.”

Dorian smirked, positively _delighted_. “Well, I stole it from you,” he rumbled, moving in close again. This time lips went to the shell of his ear. “For all your protests,” he gasped breathily, “I know how much you enjoy knowing someone might hear you.” The words, their cadence, the sex that dripped off them, made the Inquisitor tremble. He could feel his trousers growing tight again already. His Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed thickly.

And then, quick as a flash, Dorian had pressed a chaste peck to his cheek and slid out from their hiding place. Fitzwilliam could hear the soft leather of his boots on the hard stone. “Coming?” he called.

 

AN: Aaaaaaand that’s two! I’ve had a heck of a week, and a heck of a weekend ahead of me, but I am delighted I got this done on time for you all to enjoy! Remember to comment, should you feel inclined, and leave your thoughts. I do apologize if there are slightly more errors or less word variation than usual. I have been exhausted. (Also, if I messed up any of the Latin;))

V-bird: You have met Vanessah at last!

Shadow: You’re welcome ;)

Have a beautiful week, darlings.

~Love!


	3. Chapter 3

Ch 3 art by Eclectify at eclectify.tumblr.com

 

Chapter 3

Sulla Cervidus was not a man who liked to keep people waiting. He liked many things: elven women, power, a good brandy and gambling. He _really_ liked gambling. It was the last which was his current mission. He was on his way to his monthly game, only this time he had agreed to a buy-in that was nothing short of extortion. All because the last time he had patronized the establishment he may have, _slightly_ , ruffed up one of the slaves working the pits. But that was what they were for, wasn’t it? To be used? Still, Naso Dulcitius didn’t approve of his property being damaged. Maker knew, if Sulla had had any other joys in his life he would have pursued them. But this was the last one, and even it had been tarnished. This wasn’t going to be a night of pleasure either. He needed to go to _this_ game. He needed to win these hands. It was all planned out. And if he didn’t someone was going to take him down. Better to play the role which he had been assigned.

Generally Sulla was a man of efficiency. He took his jobs, did them, and got paid. He never ran late, he never arrived to early. He was a machine of industry. But, of course, on a night when timing was as important as it had ever been, everything had all gone to utter shit. Naso had a strict rule about locking the doors. If anyone arrived past the agreed upon time they wouldn’t be admitted. So he _had_ to make it to the venue and he had to play _tonight_. Truth be told he’d lost a lot of hands over the past season. Really, it was… it was a suspicious number of losses for a man who had been known to be a fair player. But with the Trade growing ever more expensive he was going to run out of funds without something to stopgap and agreeing to throw the assigned hands was providing that stopgap. This was the last one. One huge job and he could go back to playing, and winning, for pleasure.

He’d left his home in the upper ring with more than enough time to arrive. He’d chosen his route, picked his traveling companion – everything was arranged. But no sooner they had turned down the main street into the middle ring did they find not one, but _two_ entire caravans full of nugs had tipped. The street had been swarming with the ugly naked pink things, running and squealing. And of course it was. Because this was the middle ring, full of working-class slaves and laborers. It was too much to ask that they maintain order on something as simple as a harmless food-stock. It quickly became clear that the mess was going to take some time to resolve, and the caravans had fallen so they nearly covered the entire width of the road, even if Sulla had been willing to push his way through the animals. So, they had detoured.

But then they’d had four robbery attempts. _Four._ How did such a thing even happen, surely they had to branch out more for any of them to make any real coin. What were they all doing on this single, blighted, side street? The first had been a small child, curled into a dirty ball on the corner, hand out, begging. He didn’t even spare the urchin a glance. Which, as it turned out had been folly. Once he had passed the wicked little thing darted at his back grabbing. It was clumsy and a back-hand from his guard had been enough to dismiss the child.

The next two had been run of the mill threats with knives, easily dissuaded by a sword and a few dangerous words. But the last one had seen Sulla’s brooch snatched and his guard had been forced to give pursuit. It was no matter. He was nearly to the venue, and with blood magic he was more than capable of fending of thieves himself. Any who dared attack him net would not escape with their lives as the previous criminals had. _Then_ it had been quicker to let them flee. _Now_ if he was going to make it to his game there would be no time for negotiation – Sulla would prick his finger with the needled ring he wore and dispose of the trash with little more than a wave of his hand and an exertion of will. One could almost pity anyone who got in his way now.

He turned down the last street, the one that would lead him back to the main, and deposit him right before Dulcitius’ establishment. It was emptier than the other two, which was some small blessing, as it meant it was quiet and there was little place for pickpockets to hide, but it was in terrible repair. Those buildings had to be abandoned, didn’t they? They looked like one squall-breath from the Waking Sea would send them toppling. Yet, he could see candlelight, hear chatter… Fasta vass, these people lived like chattel and were content… little more than beasts, in his opinion. He noted several particularly decrepit buildings for the future. There was good work to be made in demolition, and maybe some of the tenants would be desperate enough to sell themselves into his service once they knew they were going to be homeless. He would save money on Trading, and make money tearing an eyesore down. Perhaps the detours had been worth it after all.

He was running figures when he heard the strange sound, like wind rushing. Perhaps a storm was kicking up. He heard a scream and stopped in his tracks, concentration broken and looked for the source of the high-pitched annoyance. “Do shut up,” he bellowed, “I’m trying to –”

…

As the spy watched, he had to admit, the splatter the magister’s head became was quite satisfying. It sprayed across the walls of an old brick building, offering it some much-needed color. He supposed he’d give the little dragon this: when he planned, he didn’t go by half-measures. The entire event had been extraordinarily well crafted. Right down to what happened next.

People swarmed the side-street, drawn by the woman who had screamed from her window. Interestingly, he hadn’t been able to spot her, which was a shame really. If she had spotted what was coming she might have been a good connection to make. Whispering and pointing swept through the crowd, people swapping stories even as hands covered mouths in shock and horror. The four “pick-pockets” from before returned, accompanied by twice as many children. He’d suspected as much. If you saw one urchin there would always be even more you didn’t. They descended on the body like a swarm of carrion beetles, picking him clean. The observers didn’t seem to care, though they obviously noticed. Magister Sulla was left in nothing but his robes. His belt, boots, and personal items had been removed. If he wasn’t a great beast of a man, the children might have left him completely naked, but as was he was too hard to shift.

A voice of authority boomed into the alley and the children scattered, each taking off in a different direction as soon as the backstreet split ways. The onlookers dispersed as well, all of them going to spread the news. It was so rare one had gossip like a magister’s untimely demise in your alley to share. Usually they had very posh deaths – with wine and assassins. One thing was for sure, there was no chance of house Cervidus keeping this out of the press until the next vote.

“Not much left to see,” he muttered to himself as he eased back on the roof and removed a crusty roll from his pocket. He’d taken it from a party and, he had to admit, it was quite tasty with its crunchy crust and fluffy, herbed center. He munched as he thought back over all he had seen, analyzing the Dragon’s plan point by point. He had to have miss-stepped _somewhere_. After all, he’d had less than a day to plan.

First, there had been the carts with the nugs. He smirked. That had actually been hilarious. As far as he could tell it had been done by recruiting a vendor to poke one of the pull-beasts with a pin. It had started, running straight into the cart in front of it, and they both ended up on their sides. The impact had knocked the simple latches loose and dozens of the naked pink quadrupeds tumbled into the streets. People scattered, nugs charged this way and that, it was utter, beautiful chaos.

Next came the pick-pockets. They were easiest to figure as they had been nothing more than distractions. They had clearly been paid, and from the looks of them, this wasn’t the first time. They looked tattered, sure, but not as tattered as they _should_ have. It was deliberate. Made to make them look like urchins, and maybe they used to be. But he’d seen urchins. Urchins were fast, but always too thin. These children, on the other hand, had been enjoying regular meals for some time. Urchins tended to be dirty, but not in the smudged face dirty hands way of this group. It was dirt that got into the creases in the skin and _stained_ it for lack of regular washing. These children were dirty, but not that kind of dirty. Again, it was strategic. Most street rats had more pressing matters to see to than hounding a magister. That was a high-risk endeavor with little chance of reward. Urchins tended to steal food or beg coin. No, given all of the things he was seeing one was very clear – someone had to have been employing them. Interesting. There weren’t a lot of assassins who liked to share their coin. Scavenging the magister seemed to be a part of their reward but they had obviously been getting regular food and shelter for some time. He’d have to look into that.

Lastly, they had the very public accident. It was glorious really, a single very loose, very heavy brick. It fell from a great height. Or, rather, it had been thrown. He had only caught a glimpse of the thrower but they must have been very sure of their aim. The brick was released and the perpetrator slipped away before it had even landed. He, himself, had only caught sight of the figure’s back and he had been expecting something. Maybe not _that_ something, if he was honest, but he still had more to go on than anyone else had. To them it merely looked like a terrible freak accident. He could hear people now: “if only he hadn’t turned down that street” and “how unfortunate” and “I guess it could have happened to anyone.” It was a good kill. There would be no one to blame. No one who could even, slightly, be brought up on charges.

Of course, plans were one thing, even excellently crafted ones. How the baby assassin handled things off the cuff, now that was information worth knowing. He’d knew Ataashi had come pre-vetted and that had been enough to pique his interest. But all his fine credentials ran in circles, leading to no one. Not for nothing, that _was_ impressive in and of itself – it was what had made him decide to observe this job. He’d have to do more, though, and waiting to spy on another assassination was going to take longer than he’d like. He’d have to come up with something else. Some kind of, of test.

He finished his “meal” and took off across the rooftops, jumping, rolling, and climbing with ease as he headed toward the docks to make some plans of his own.

VVV

Dorian couldn’t help the shiver than coursed through him when the rift came into view. A jagged green rip in reality. The sight of it brought all sort of unpleasant memories to the forefront of his mind. They came in flashes: falling off the bridge, fight after fight in the wilds, demons pouring from the gash like blood from a wound. Sights and smells and sounds overwhelmed him and he was lost. His heard pounded, his head spun, he felt untethered.

And then a hand grasped his shoulder, pulling him back, grounding him. Something cut through the anxiety and panic, clear and cool, soothing and invigorating. “ _Dorian!”_ He blinked, turning to the source of the voice. “Are you okay?” And just like that it was gone. All of the sights and sounds and smells. Everything but the steady thrum of the bond, pulsing with affection and concern.

He nodded, rustled up a lopsided smile, and lifted his hand. It draped over Fitzwilliam’s, squeezing gently. “I’m fine, Amatus,” he said. It didn’t really ring true, and it was clear the Inquisitor wasn’t convinced either, but the moment had passed, for now.

Graciously, Fitzwilliam let it go, removing his hand and making his way closer to the rift. “There’s something different about this one,” he said slowly. Dorian’s feet wouldn’t move. He tried, really he did, but he felt trapped. His silence had betrayed him. His lover turned around and caught his eye. “C’mon Dorian,” he said with a playful grin. “That big brain of yours and you can’t see it? I guess I brought the wrong mage.”

That smile tugged at him, and his feet finally moved. “You,” he said slowly, forcing one foot in front of the other to close the gap between them, “wouldn’t know a demon from a wisp, Fitzwilliam. You _need_ me.”

The Inquisitor smirked, his gaze turning heated. “Oh,” he purred, “I always need you, Serah.”

“Naturally,” Dorian said with a dismissive wave. “However, we came here for a different purpose.” He put his mind to work. Perhaps if it were busy it would stop torturing him. “It looks like a normal rift,” he drawled slowly. He walked about it in a circle, inspecting the odd way it cut through the air without having any substance. “Try closing it with the mark.”

Fitzwilliam walked nearer as Dorian backed away from the tear. Fitz reached out, pulling the black suede glove off his left hand before he lifted it above his head, wiggled his fingers, and _boom_. Nothing happened. Sure, the mark flared to life with Fitz’s exertion of will, but it didn’t stream toward the rift, it didn’t do anything. And the rift didn’t either. “I didn’t feel the vibration when we approached,” he said, lowering the marked hand. “I usually feel a vibration in my hand when we near a rift. Like a - like a warning.” Dorian watched as the man flexed his fingers, staring at the scarred palm. “Maybe - maybe I’m just out of practice? I haven’t had to close a rift in months.”

Dorian shrugged. “It’s worth a shot,” he agreed.

Fitzwilliam repeated the process and for a moment the effect was the same – nothing. He split his attention between watching Fitzwilliam and inspecting the rift, trying to see any subtle change. Fitz’s face was going red with strain, his eyes narrowing and jaw clenching as he focused all of his effort. Dorian set his eyes to the rift, wondering, considering. A thousand theories of magic spinning around in his head. They were hard to untangle and trying to do so was distracting him. So, when the mark jutted out a stream of green it startled him.

“Oh, there it is,” Dorian said, grinning and turning to look at Fitz.

“Uh, I think something’s wrong,” Fitzwilliam said, voice warbling uncertainly. And it was. The mark was throwing the fade energy at the rift but it wasn’t closing it. It was making it bigger. Dorian’s smile vanished.

“Stop!” Dorian shouted.

Fitz shook his head. “I can’t,” he yelled back, face panicked. “It’s just - I can’t!”

Dorian could feel the fade like a palpable thing now, roaring to life around them, the rift glowing brighter and brighter until it was blinding. He tried to run, tried to think but that terror held him in its grip again, clenching. He felt boxed in. He clamped his eyes shut against the light. He fell to his knees. Behind him he could hear Fitzwilliam yell his name.

And then it was over.

The light faded behind his eyelids as the pound of Fitzwilliam’s running feet filtered into his awareness. “Dorian,” he heard, the voice mixing with the sound of shifting gravel as Fitzwilliam knelt beside him. “What happened, are you okay? I-I don’t feel any pain but…” Hands reached out, one cool and clad in leather, the other naked and hot, the mark humming against the flesh of his face as Fitzwilliam cradled it.

Dorian nodded, letting his eyes flutter open, blinking against the light. They sought Fitzwilliam’s face first, struggling to focus. Brilliant blue eyes filled his vision as he looked upward. “You’re being very dramatic today,” the mage said softly. The blue eyes narrowed, glaring even as the hands shifted to help the mage up.

It wasn’t until he was standing that he noticed. There, just over Fitz’s shoulder, was the rift. Or, rather, where it had been. Dorian grabbed the Inquisitor’s shoulders and turned him gently. “ _Maker_ ,” he gasped. Dorian just nodded silently.

There, replacing the harsh emerald tear in reality, was a beautiful slivery opening. It shimmered like a mirror, glittering in the sunlight, but not reflecting their world as it ought to have been. What it might have shown inside it Dorian never got to see. His view was obscured by the thousands of little lights floating out of the … well “gate” was the only word he could think of for it. It was like they had been freed. Tiny orbs, some bigger than others but none larger than a fist, flew over the blades of grass and around flowers and hovered over stones. They seemed… curious. There were dozens of colors. Some were vibrant, some were subdued. Some held a steady glow and some pulsed.

“Dorian,” Fitzwilliam whispered as a very small periwinkle wisp fluttered about his head. “What are they?”

Dorian watched, feeling his own awe and wonder amplified through the Lenen'hima'sa. “I think they’re spirits,” he replied, voice pitched just as low.

“What are they doing?” Fitz inquired, turning back to look at him.

Dorian let his hands slip under the man’s arms, sliding down the expanse of the man’s back before wrapping about his waist. He held him, dropping his chin to Fitzwilliam’s broad shoulders. “I think they’re exploring,” he said, feeling the smile creeping across his face and into his voice. “I don’t how you did it, Amatus, but I think you set them free.”

He felt the anxiety stab through the bond as Fitzwilliam’s body tensed in his embrace. “That’s bad, right?” the Inquisitor asked, “If they can get out can’t demons get out too?”

“I don’t think so,” Dorian said soothingly. “I think, whatever you did, it healed the rift. I don’t think demons will want to use it anymore.”

“But you can’t know that,” Fitz insisted, voice quivering.

Dorian pressed a kiss to his temple, the soft brunette strands there tickling his nose. “Not yet,” he agreed. “But I’ll look into it. We know where this place is and for now, at least, it’s clear these little fellows aren’t doing any harm.”

He could feel reluctance from the man he held, but also trust and… appreciation. Dorian smiled, a soft secret little quirk of the lips. They really ought to have gone then. Back to the manor to research and solve riddles. But the sight of the dancing lights was very beautiful, and he held in his arms the man that he loved. Then Fitzwilliam nuzzled his face into the mage’s shoulder, resting it there, and he couldn’t help the contentment that overwhelmed him. He pulled him a little closer and resigned himself to the moment.

He supposed they could stay just a _little_ longer.

 

 

AN: This chapter is late AND short, and for that I apologize. I worked Anthrocon last week and it just ate up all my writing/editing time. BUT that's okay because there's also art by Ryn which is beautiful and hopefully makes up for my flaws this week! I hope you are enjoying all the intrigue!

 

Also, let it be known that I have launched a Patreon account. There are ALL kinds of goodies at different levels. I encourage you to go check it out. We have everything from $1/mo to $50/mo and rewards from "See pictures of me trying to write" to commission work! So yeah, I'll put the link it a note at the bottom. I hope you feel inspired to donate a little, no matter how small.

 

~Love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by Eclectify at eclectify.tumblr.com (please reblog or like if you enjoy her work!)
> 
> Patreon account: patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

Chapter 4

 

 

Dorian seemed shocked by Halward’s request to join him in the study following their appointment with the Archon. He had accepted anyway, which came as a pleasant surprise even if his son did look too alert and not at all at ease. At this moment that same man, tall and stately, with his mother’s hair and clever smile, sat on the large black couch, avoiding his gaze entirely. Halward tried to steady his hand as he poured the brandy. He had, undeniably, buggered many things in the past few years. This distance between them was of his making, he knew that. Picking up the glasses he turned, but for the moment he didn’t approach the couch. He just stood, looking at his son with a swell of pride that had nothing to do with his own ego.

Before… before Dorian left, every time he felt that pride a little of it was for him. For breeding a powerful heir, for upholding his line, his duty. And now, now he knew the folly in that. It was all owed to Dorian and he had never given him that credit. He set his shoulders and approached his son, determined to do better.

He extended the glass with a steady hand, due only to the composure cultivated over his long years in the senate. Dorian didn’t move for a moment, and when he _did_ reach up to take the drink he persisted in his refusal to so much as glance at his father.

“To your new position,” Halward said softly, raising his glass. Dorian nodded slightly in acknowledgement and sipped. “What will you do with it?” _Just diving into the tough questions_ , Halward mused. Both hands wrapped around his glass, left index finger tapping absentmindedly.

Dorian rolled his eyes, lips twisted into a mocking smile.. “You can’t honestly think I’m just going to open up to you now, after everything? Why would I do that, Pater? Gratitude for your efforts on my behalf, perhaps?”

“I am merely curious, Dorian,” Halward snorted. “You’ve been working toward this for months, and you’ve such a clever mind. I can’t imagine you _don’t_ have an agenda.”

“Even if I did,” Dorian growled, “and even if I were willing to share it with you, I doubt you’d approve.”

“Dorian,” he drawled slowly, letting the hurt into his voice but his son didn’t look at him. Perhaps a different topic. He smiled. “I had dinner with your Fitzwilliam the other evening. He’s a very interesting boy.”

Dorian _did_ look at him then, sharp daggers to match his words. “Oh yes? He didn't have anything better to do? No frivolity to entertain? That doesn't sound like him. He usually keeps better company.” If looks could cut Halward would have been bleeding. Dorian’s eyes were narrowed, suspicious. “Yes, I heard all about your supper. Fitzwilliam said you were asking a lot of questions about me.”

Halward managed a weak half-smile. “I asked how you were doing, yes,” he admitted. “I would have asked you, but…”

“But talking to me was never your strong suit,” Dorian drawled. He stood then, drinking down his liquor in one long pull. “Thank you for the drink.” It was clear to Halward that his son had dismissed him. Dorian held out the crystalline tumbler and he took it, just managing a weak smile.

“Thank you for sharing one with me, Dorian,” he said as sincerely as possible. Expressiveness had never been his forte. Dorian’s came from his mother. His son turned and headed toward the heavy dark-oak door. His hand was already on the knob when Halward mustered up the courage to say what he had brought Dorian to his study to hear.

“I’m proud of you,” he nearly choked on those words. He felt like a coward, only managing to say it when Dorian had nearly gone. Dorian turned, looking at his father with wide eyes.

“I know you won’t believe me, Dorian,” he said voice pitched low, hardly loud enough to be heard from across the room. “But I am.” He expected anger, white-hot and roiling as seemed to be his son’s way.

“Thank you,” Dorian whispered. His voice was, indeed, heavy with emotion, but devoid of the rage Halward anticipated. He smiled weakly. Dorian nodded, face oddly expressionless, opened the door and left only to be replaced by his mother. She glided in, sliding past her son and through the opening without disturbing the steady swing of the closing slab of wood.

Vanessah. The sight of her still made his heart jump, even after all these years. Even after their estrangement. He scowled bitterly at himself and sipped his drink. The punishing burn of it slid down his throat. He welcomed the pain, felt grounded by it. What an old fool he was... But he couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered on her. The wispy muslin dress, purple and teal, clung to curves she had never lost. Her jewelry, gold and intricate, was impressive, but delicate. She had always favored those pieces. He was one of the few who knew she reinforced them with magic, each surrounded by a protective ward. Not a single one had ever been broken.

Those wards were a beautiful example of Vanessah’s magic. Where other mages used their power to destroy she used hers to protect, to shield beauty in all its forms. He learned just how fierce that magic could be when she brought it to bear against him – when their son was the beauty she had needed to protect.

“I need to speak with you,” Vanessah said as she glided past him to the small bar in the corner of the room. He watched her at the decanters, pouring wine, weight shifted to one foot so that her hip cocked dramatically. She returned with a glass of white, chilled around her fingers and he could see the frost making delicate shard patterns that circled the pads of her fingers.

“What do you wish to speak of, my dear,” he sighed. She glared at him, and his mouth picked up at one corner, a small smirk. She hated when he called her that. He took some comfort from knowing he could still get _some_ reaction from the woman.

“What else?” she said. There was a dismissive air about her that made him grit his teeth, as if she were _forcing_ the disinterest. “Our son, Halward. You’ll remember him, tall, dark hair, mustache, just left your study?”

“What about him, Vanessah,” he urged her to reach her point. Being in the room with her always made him feel uncomfortable.

She sipped her wine, seemingly unperturbed. Still, he saw the minor twist of her lips, the crinkle at her corner of her eyes, the way her nose squinched up as if she smelled something slightly odorous. She could fool almost anyone but never him. “He’s in the court now, we need to talk about how we’re going to handle affairs.”

“The boy is old enough to handle his own affairs, dear,” Halward said.

“Oblivious as ever,” she groused. “Dorian has several contracts out on his seat, Halward. And there’s more than one on that Inquisitor fellow.”

Halward’s lips lifted in a wry smile. “I think _Fitzwilliam_ ,” he emphasized the name pointedly, “is a perfectly charming fellow, little dull maybe, but I cannot for the life of me understand your ire for the boy.”

His wife rolled her eyes and fixed him with a frown. “No, of course you don’t. That would require you to take the time to understand any number of things you have already proven you have no interest in – your son, his well-being, his life, _me_.”

Oh he wanted to throttle her. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to shake her and kiss her to within an inch of her life and sanity. She was right about one thing – he _didn’t_ understand her. Not for lack of trying, either. It was simply hard too understand a woman who actively avoided you. He realized he still held Dorian’s glass and crossed to put it down.

“Just,” he sighed heavily, “tell me what you want from me.”

“I want you to pay attention,” she growled, lifting the glass to her red-stained lips. He watched as the wine vanished in one long pull. “And,” she pressed on when she’d finished and set the glass on the mantle, “if it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like you to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, Halward.”

With that, not even waiting for so much as a nod, she stormed from the chamber. Happy to be rid of his company, no doubt. Still it was more than he’d seen of her in weeks and he couldn’t help but be glad for that. Her scent lingered, familiar, tickling his memory – freesias.

She cultivated them in the garden. He remembered her bringing them to the manor after they had wed. At great length she had told him why she preferred only the red ones, inconsolable when they bloomed albino and colorless. He smiled fondly at the memory and without warning he found himself in the study of thirty years past. It hadn’t changed much. But for a moment, to his eyes, his young wife sat upon the leather couch, weeping. Over flowers. He knew he should have found that frivolous and absurd, but he had a feeling they were more than plants to her. They had been a link to her home.

He comforted her all night and in the morning he sent the slaves to her father’s home with orders to bring back every last red freesia. He would never forget the look on her face when he presented them to her – mouth agape, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She planted them all with great care, alongside the white ones. The next year the garden bloomed to reveal a brilliant sight. The red and white had cross-pollinated, producing stripped flowers with a powerful scent. To this day Vanessah had them pressed into perfume, only wearing them in her hair on special occasions. And when she did she looked like the innocent young woman he had married.

Halward flopped onto the couch.  Suddenly feeling every year of his age. The talk with Dorian hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped nor had the following one with his wife.  But, he supposed, any day where they were both willing to speak to him could be counted as an improvement.

It had been hard having Dorian at the manor. Halward delighted in having his son home, but he wondered if that really shone through. And, unsurprisingly, it brought up a lot of unresolved issues. Or, _issue._

The ritual. The blighted, fool-headed blood ritual. He’d spent these last years going over it again and again in his mind. Some days he fell down on the side of “I wouldn’t have gone through with it,” on others he was less sure.

He had been so blind then, so lost and alone. So _afraid_.

What a dreadful thing, “fear.” He’d been afraid for Dorian: of the struggle his life would be because of something he couldn’t change. Of the pain his son would face in never being able to truly love a man here in Tevinter. Of losing his bright, jewel of a boy to that hurt. And he’d been afraid for himself: of Dorian leaving Halward to his loneliness, just like his mother. Those fears had bred in him a violent desperation. The blood ritual had been more than ill-conceived.

And then, as so often happened when acting out of panic, all of those fears had become manifest. No blame could be laid on anyone but himself.

Halward cast a small ball of fire, almost idly calling it to his fingertips before tossing it into the dry wood in the hearth. It went up quickly, filling the air with cassia-scented smoke, driving away the memories. If only for a little while.

 

...

 

Dorian’s body trembled as he entered the west wing of the manor. _Where is Fitzwilliam?_ He found himself searching the bond, subconsciously, for a sense of direction. He sensed worry, and the thrum of energy that indicated his lover. It pulled him, growing stronger with every step. Fitzwilliam met him halfway, in the hall between the library and their sleeping chambers. His expression wrought with worry as he reached out to the mage. Fitzwilliam’s fingers, steady and sure, entwined with his unsteady digits, soothing them with little more than a touch. A familiar warmth flooded him. It radiated first from those clasped hands, then again when Fitz lifted his marked palm, and pressed it to the side of Dorian’s neck. Despite the white fingerless glove, the heat seeped into him. The man tugged gently, drawing the gap between them closed as their foreheads rested together.

The mage tried to focus on his breathing, on matching Fitzwilliam’s cadence, on bringing his pounding heart to a slow. It was important. He could already feel the hum of his power building, seeking an outlet. There wasn’t a lot of time before something slipped and he knew Fitzwilliam could feel it too. It had been happening more often lately and the panics had been coming with increasing frequency since their arrival in Minrathous. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly so that speckles of phantom light danced across his vision. Better that than the alternative: the wild unleashing of his magic.

It took several minutes, but eventually he calmed. “What happened, Serah?” Fitzwilliam whispered, refusing to lessen his grip.

His voice came out a tiny warbling thing, “My father said he was proud of me.” A tenderness coursed through the Lenen'hima'sa, affectionate and warm and exasperated.

“That’s a _good_ thing,” the man responded. Dorian could hear the smile on the wind of his words.

“I-I can’t talk about this,” he rasped. “Not right now, it’s too… _raw_.”

Another person would have argued but not Fitzwilliam. Whether it was a symptom of the bond, or just the kind of man the Inquisitor was, could be debated but regardless of the cause Dorian was soon opening his eyes as the man tugged at him. He pulled them down the hall and into their bedchamber, before swinging the heavy door shut behind them.

“Bed,” Fitzwilliam ordered gently. Dorian’s eyes widened in question, he stood frozen. The rogue had noticed the lack of movement and repeated himself. “Bed.” The tone brooked no argument. Gone was the Inquisitor, the vapid arm-sweet. He had already carefully removed that mantle, and put on another. Fitz didn’t even spare him a glance, certain his command would be followed as he unwound the supple leather coiled about his forearms. Dorian knew the vest would come off next, then the shirt. Sadly, this was not a time during which one was permitted to observe. He moved to the bed, standing at its foot, and bowed his head. His gaze fixed upon a snag in the fabric.

There were days Dorian cursed the Iron Bull for the instruction he had given his lover before they departed Skyhold. Fitzwilliam didn’t have the raw power the Qunari did, but it had never been about the pain. It was about not having to think, about letting go. So he didn’t ask what Fitzwilliam was doing, he didn’t turn to seek him out. _I’m proud of you._ The words still clanged around in his head, painful, confusing.

“Shirt,” he heard just beside his ear. Breath, hot and light, ghosted across his skin. Dorian reached up, fingers trembling on the clasps of his vest. Fitzwilliam stayed close, watching with cool patience. He didn’t reprimand the mage when clumsy fingers slipped due to an unfocused mind. He took solace in the simple actions, attempting concentrate on them as fully as he would magical theory.

The vest slipped from his shoulders to the floor. Unceremoniously, he pulled the shirt over his head to join it. Dorian lowered his arms to his sides as Fitzwilliam’s fingertips alighted on his skin. The touch was soft, light, like butterflies fluttering around him. A palm pressed between his shoulder blades. He was still wearing the white, fingerless gloves but Dorian could feel where the mark warmed the leather. It made a shiver run down his spine.

The contact was gone as soon as it had come, a whimper trailing from Dorian’s throat after it. “You,” Fitzwilliam said from somewhere behind the mage, “are so beautiful, Serah.” The Inquisitor had moved away, his voice dispersed by the space between them. “Remove the rest.”

Dorian did. Sandals went first, little more than a swift pull on the silken ropes and a kick of the foot. Then his trousers. Then his small clothes. They all joined the messy pile on the floor and Dorian stood looking at the bed. He was startled to find he was hard. His manhood red and aching already, and Fitzwilliam had hardly touched him.

“I believe,” Fitzwilliam scolded, “we have talked about you leaving your things in mounds, Dorian.” The mage cringed, feeling the rebuke like a blow. They _had_ talked about it. He knew he was supposed to clean up after himself.

He nodded, hanging his head in shame. He would have apologized, but wasn’t supposed to talk at times like this. Not unless Fitz told him to. “Tidy it, then grab the cane.” Dorian grimaced, but did as he was told. He bent over, scooping up the discarded garments and took them to a large wooden chair beside the wardrobe.

He folded each item carefully, just the way Fitzwilliam had shown him on their first session weeks and weeks ago. He moved with measured, deliberate movements, another exercise in mindfulness. The trousers first, lining up the seams, draping them over the high back of the chair. Then he placed the shirt, sleeves tucked carefully within, atop them. Finally, the vest blanketed over it all. His smallclothes, silken and black, he folded into a small square which found a home on the seat of the chair. Last of all, Dorian sank to his knees and, one at a time, wrapped the soft ropes of silk around the thin leather sole of each sandal before placing them, side by side, under the chair.

Task done, he stood, grabbed the thick cane and returned to his position before the bed. The ash felt cool in his hands, smooth, hard. His cock twitched as his fingers stroked the wood. It had no right doing such a thing. He could hear the soft footfalls of Fitzwilliam moving toward him. A moment passed before the man reached out and took the rod. “Hands on the bed,” he said. An empty hand smoothed across the bared flesh of Dorian’s shoulders. Confused nerves sent signals of pain that isn’t there. His body jumped. He knew what would come if he delayed too long and he was already receiving one punishment. He had no desire to add a second. He leaned over, bracing his hands on curve of the footboard. The cane tapped across his backside and the tops of his thighs in truncated, rapid movements, small slaps meant to pull blood to the surface of his skin. It would cushion his muscles, Bull had explained to them, so that when proper blows landed the damage would not be severe. Of course the act also had the added effect of making the flesh tender. The Qunari had sworn that the straps that landed were never swung as hard as Dorian thought. This part would take several minutes, he knew, and he felt his mind beginning to wander, seeking occupation. 

At this moment he focused on the bond – the pulsing, mystical connection that allowed him to feel what Fitzwilliam felt. In a situation like this he expected the man to feel one of two extremes as anyone who engaged in these types of sessions might feel. The first would be pleasure. There were many who would have enjoyed the submissive nature of this engagement on a primal level. But as he searched the bond for that sensation he realized it wasn’t there. It never was, but the lack of it always surprised him. It seemed the Inquisitor had no desire to make Dorian subservient to him. He moved on, anticipating disgust. Fitzwilliam had always been such a kind man. He hated to see the ones he loved get hurt, and he was fiercely defensive of them. Providing this service to Dorian, no matter how desperately needed, should have been upsetting to him. Again, however, he did not find what he was looking for. He felt _something_ lingering there, but found himself unable to decipher it in the allotted time.

The first blow landed across his backside with an audible crack, forcing his body into an arch. He grit his teeth and clutched at the bedframe. “One,” he counted, not needing to wait for the instruction. The first hadn’t been particularly hard. It never was. It smarted, but it was far from the pain he knew Fitzwilliam could inflict. The second landed with more force, enough to make his jaw ache as he bit back a cry. “Two,” he ground out. He wasn’t sure how many blows would come. That was part of the punishment. Dorian hated not knowing anything. The third managed to pull a sharp cry from him. It was no use holding them back forever. He wasn’t ready when four came, and his knees buckled. Arm strength alone saw him remain upright. Five and six came one right after the other and Dorian screamed. His legs gave out again and then there was the loud clatter of the cane on the floor, Fitzwilliam’s arms wrapped around him, offering support.

He held him until Dorian’s heart slowed and his breathing steadied. Then he dropped a kiss on his back and stepped away. “On your stomach,” he said firmly. The mage managed the few steps to the side of the bed and eased down on to his front. Fingertips ran over exposed flesh, the sensations tangled with throbbing and adrenaline until it left him shaking. But he persisted, and soon the touch was calming instead. Palms and lips and whispered words of praise made his heart tight. When had the gloves come off?

Fitzwilliam carefully avoided the round globes of his bum, red as anything if the heat there was any indication, until last. Dorian couldn’t help the sharp hiss he made upon contact. But his lover was well-practiced now. The tantalizingly timid touches have vanished, replaced by a firmer hand. It hurt, but in the solid stinging way of something he could understand, not the disordered firing of synapses. There’s a pause, and then something cool is being massaged into the angry skin. The salve did its work quickly, taking away a good bit of the bite.

The bed shifted and Fitzwilliam stretched out across it, draping his body half-over Dorian’s, their naked flesh pressed together. When had he finish undressing? Had Dorian seen him naked? He couldn’t recall. Fitzwilliam’s un-marked hand cupped his jaw, thumb stroking across his sharp cheekbone. He felt a flash of admiration through the bond that faded quickly. “You know we aren’t done,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “That was only your punishment.” Dorian nodded silently. “Good.”

He can’t help but wonder what it will be this time. A show for the Inquisitor? Service? Denial? The bed shifted again, losing the weight of Fitzwilliam, and Dorian doesn’t have to wonder any longer. “Knees,” he said. Dorian pulled his legs up and planted his knees hip-width apart. His forehead rested on the bedding, his elbows took his weight.

He felt the thick, blunt pressure of an oiled cock prodding his entrance. He grunted as Fitzwilliam made an unceremonious press forward. It hurt and the throbbing of his cheeks, though somewhat dulled by the salve, added to the pain in a way that had his watchword pushing to the tip of his tongue. With Iron Bull he had never needed one, but when Fitzwilliam had taken over the Qunari had insisted they settle on it. He had not gone with “Venatori” as Bull had suggested one drunken night a lifetime ago. He’d chosen something innocuous, something he would never call out in the heat of the moment – “whiskey.” And until now he had only uttered it once. He waited, the familiar burn of the stretch _would_ ease, he knew. The sensation astounded him, but it would pass.

The Inquisitor seated himself to the hilt, then stilled completely. Breathing, a harsh, muffled white noise, resonated in Dorian’s ears. “When you are ready,” Fitzwilliam said, a tremble in his voice despite the tight reign he had on the situation, “you may move.” Dorian lifted his head to nod where it would be seen. So many of these scenes focused around the dominant partner taking what they wanted but Fitzwilliam wasn’t that kind of man. He couldn’t just selfishly take his pleasure from Dorian. So instead he had dreamed this up. It was his least favorite of all their set-ups, but it was quite good at making sure he couldn’t focus on anything else. The mage would have to do all the work, thusly relieving the dubious lack of consent, and putting that choice to him. And, when all was said and done, the watchword was there for a reason. There was always a choice, and it was always his to make.

Several deep inhales and he had managed to swallow the watchword back. He could do this. The amount of waiting his lover was willing to allot him before he could expect a punishment was limited, and Dorian knew he was testing it. A final, steadying breath and he found the will to rock his hips forward. A jolt of pleasure swayed him, echoed and amplified through the bond and sent his body surging. He could feel Fitzwilliam’s length as it slid. Abruptly and dangerously close to pulling free, the broad flare of the head stretched his ring and the burning revived. This was a good demonstration as to why this particular scene took all his focus to perform. If he didn’t move, punishment awaited, if Fitzwilliam fell out, punishment awaited, if he talked, punishment – well one did get the idea.

For a moment he pushed the pleasure to the edges of his awareness so that he might zero in on his control. Abdominal muscles pulled tight to stabilize him. Shoulders shifted forward, taking more weight onto his arms, his legs still too unstable from the caning to both hold and propel him. He grit his teeth and went to work. The pace he set was achingly slow, which was a detriment really, because it required his movements to be studied, precise. He trembled. It was a tradeoff, either move mindfully and have to have complete focus, or move quickly and become overwhelmed.

He began to give himself instruction. _Forward. Clench. Steady. Back. Easy._ Maker _. Forward._ He kept up the mantra until it mesmerized him. Movement and thought became hypnotic, melding together. His body began moving of its own accord, his mind going blank, blissfully empty. The tight ball in his chest, the one that made it hard to breathe, that made his vision go dark at the edges, _melted_ as the ritual did its work and took him over.

Suddenly, he cried out, pain blazing into awareness and drawing him back to the present. He froze, blinking, trying to understand what had happened. “Serah,” Fitzwilliam said behind him, questioning and worried. The voice sounded watery, boxed in. “Dorian,” he said again, more firmly. His mouth worked, but he only managed a strangled sound. Fitz’s marked hand smoothed down his flank, warm and pacifying. He couldn’t imagine that the Inquisitor would have hit him again. He must have just touched the tender redness on his backside but, he probably hadn’t expected such an intense reaction. “Dorian!” he could hear the slight panic in the tenor of Fitzwilliam’s voice. “Whiskey or water?” his lover asked. Dorian sensed the tightly held reigns of Fitzwilliam’s control slipping. If he didn’t say something soon, Fitz would end up making the call. 

“Water,” he rasped out, shocked at the gravel in his voice.

He knows Fitzwilliam has an advantage Iron Bull never did – the Lenen'hima'sa. Fitz felt him achieve that peace, it must have been what drew the touch of his hand. The contact was meant to be participation, meant to bring an end to the scene, but it had startled instead. Dorian paused his train of thought momentarily, as a probing at the edge of his consciousness drew his attention. It took a while to decipher but it soon crystalized and he could tell Fitzwilliam was doing _something_ with the bond. Attempting to gain insight, perhaps. The mage tried to communicate ease, gratification, desire, anything that would help him understand. A small grunt from behind him seemed to indicate Fitz’s satisfaction.

“Touch yourself,” Fitzwilliam said, voice deep with his want.

Dorian, still shivering from sensation, did not dally. His head and shoulders went down as one arm slipped under and back. A low groan escaped him as fingers wrapped around his swollen and painfully erect shaft. The session was over and now they could fall into the familiar rhythm of _them_. Fitz’s hands went to Dorian’s hips, careful to avoid the delicate skin of his rear. For that, Dorian was grateful. There was already more than enough sensation there with the warmth from the beating, and the fullness of Fitzwilliam inside him, and the shards of discomfort that hit with each increasingly quick smack of skin on skin.

It seemed neither man had been left unaffected. Dorian was hardly holding himself up. His hand moved furiously, pumping his cock, sweeping a thumb over the weeping head, just on the verge of begging. And Fitzwilliam, for his part, was pounding him with abandon. It was often like this when the situation forced him to stay still and passive for a long time – when action was finally possible it was enthusiastic and unrestrained.

Neither spoke. There were gasps and grunts and whimpers and moans, but words stayed locked away. Dorian was trapped in an endless tumbling of responsiveness. First he would feel the slide of Fitzwilliam inside him, the shiver of pleasure through the bond, then his own, his hand, stroking, amplifying, augmenting, and then he felt Fitzwilliam’s reaction to all of that. It escalated hastily until they were both teetering.

Dorian arrived with a sharp, broken cry, somewhat muffled by burying his face in the mattress. His cock spasmed into his hand, white stickiness coating his fingers and the duvet. As the pleasure of that crest washed through him, he felt Fitzwilliam’s grip on his hips tighten as his body went rigid. He could feel the press of the tops of his lover’s thighs against the sensitive backs of his own, feel the tight hardness that came with flexing them, felt his hips tremble where they pressed close. And lastly, most deliciously, the thing that drew his climax out into longer seconds, he felt Fitzwilliam’s length shuddering inside him, pulsing, filling him.

They collapsed to the side, clutching at each other. Hands groped for fingers, lips sought out salty, sweat-slicked skin, and legs entangled. The Lenen'hima'sa _thrummed_ with love and satisfaction and a sense of being safe, of belonging.

Later there would be words, clever and sweet, and there would be wine and fruit, and there would be reading and plotting. But all of those things could wait. Now, there was just this. And it was enough.

 

 ***

 

AN: Well, it is finally here. I’d like to apologize for my tardiness – it’s been a rather hard couple weeks. But the good news is chapter five’s rough draft is already done.

In an effort to prevent further delays I am moving updates to Sundays. This will work out better for everyone, including our artist/editor Eclectify.

Also, please visit the Patreon page, if you feel inclined. There are tons of levels but for as little as $5/mo you will get access to author’s posts, chapter drafts, and doodles! I will, of course, continue to write regardless, but a show of support is always appreciated.

Next chapter: we see more of Ataashi and are introduced to a new character! Exciting!

As always, thank you for reading, commenting, donating and just being generally awesome!

~Love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editor/artist: Eclectify @ http://eclectify.tumblr.com/
> 
> Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

Ataashi hated the docks. It smelled bad, it was dark, it was always full of drunken sailors, and on more than one occasion he’d been knocked into the sea. Meeting contacts here often ended poorly. He always got paid, of course, his handler saw to that, but sometimes the coin came at a cost. A wet, cold, salty cost. He growled inwardly, hitching up the hood on his cloak to protect him from the spray and counted the lamp posts. The message said the flame in the lamp on the thirteenth post, where he was to await his contact, would be blue. And, in a strange turn of events, his mysterious contact provided Ataashi with the call phrase response. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

 

 _Eleven, Twelve and…_ there it was. It hadn’t taken long to reach the correct dock and the lamp was, indeed, flickering with a flame so blue it was nearly white. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around, just himself and the cold salty mistress of the sea. That bitch.

 

He waited for several minutes, just about to give up and leave the spray and smell to go back to the manor and his warm bed, when he heard a voice.

 

“The mage’s cheeks glisten in the moonlight.”

 

Ataashi choked a bit. He’d only been given the reply phrase, which, granted hadn’t really made much sense… until now.  The assassin couldn’t pinpoint the direction from which the voice came so he recited the second half, trying to mask his surprise, “A handful for each to squeeze."

 

“Ha,” the voice barked. It wasn’t a laugh, exactly but it drew Ataashi’s gaze upward. There, atop the outstretched arm of the light post, squatted an elf. Bright, russet hair, interesting and distinctive caught Ataashi’s eye first. The one side was shaven with a braid at the back, the other side remained loose, gathered and tied to hang just past his shoulders. Though his skin was slightly dark and his ears a bit small, he was obviously Dalish. The vallaslin, a tree just visible in the dim glow lighting the elf from below, gave him away.

 

“I can’t believe you actually said that,” he mused, a mischievous twinkle dancing in his strikingly blue eyes. Those eyes looked familiar, he searched his memories quickly, but couldn’t place them.  

 

“Well,” Ataashi considered, “it wasn’t the worst call phrase I’ve ever heard. That dubious pleasure goes to ‘The night is dark’ followed by ‘and full of bats’. No creativity at all.”

 

The elf made a sound of amusement and hopped down from his perch, gracefully landing on the deck with a hollow thump nowhere near as loud as it ought to have been. Ataashi nodded approvingly though, if one were to judge by the smug expression on the elf’s face, he hardly needed it. “So,” the assassin asked, “what can I do for you?”

 

“I,” the elf said, walking about the dock with the ease of the purposely disinterested, “have come into possession of some very sensitive information. I would like to pass that on to you.”

 

“Mhm,” Ataashi drawled. “And why would you do that, exactly. Seems like sensitive information could land a man like yourself any number of perks. Money, favors, better gloves.” He nodded to the elf’s hands. His black fingerless gloves clearly showed their wear, patches of light skin flashed through holes.

The elf hid his reaction well, his face betraying nothing, his shoulders shrugging disinterestedly, but Ataashi caught the way he pulled at the wrists of the gloves. “Sometimes,” the elf said, “knowledge is its own reward. I don’t want money or influence, I want information in return.”

 

“Ah. Finally, something that makes sense. I’m afraid I’m not a spy, information isn’t exactly my wheelhouse.”

 

The elf laughed again, gaze falling on Ataashi heavy and searching. “They said you were clever. That’s good. I like clever.” The elf winked.

 

“Oh,” Ataashi said, amused, “have we reached the flirting portion of the evening? So soon?”

 

“Yes, yes,” the elf said waving a hand, “I get it. You’re very witty. Consider it established.”

 

“And handsome, and knowledgeable, and very very good at what I do. So,” the assassin said, trying once more to return the conversation to the job, “why don’t you tell me what it is I can do for you?”

 

The elf smiled up at him. He’d moved closer, closing the gap between them, and being a full head shorter made the crane of his slender neck necessary. “I am going to give you this information. No strings, no expectations.”

 

Ataashi furrowed his brow. “And why would you do that? Not really how this contracted killer stuff works, you know. It’s usually more ‘go here, kill this person, get paid.’ I’d like to emphasize that last part. The payment part.”

 

“As I said, all I really want out of this is information. If you do the job you’ll see me again after.” The elf held out a sheaf of papers. “You’ll have to work fast though, the shipment will be in before the midnight bell.”

 

Ataashi opened the file, briefly perusing the papers. Contained within were several Slates. Prominent houses, all. At least half of them were houses Ataashi had been trying to get intel on for months. But, as interesting as those were, even more interesting were the shipping manifests. Several shipments over the past two months arrived in under the listing for “imported goods” but looking at the manifest one thing was very clear. The boats had more food than they had any reason for, excesses of water, the boat bigger than they needed to move most goods. Unless they were bringing in druffalo that pointed to one particular cargo – the elf had just handed him the manifest for a slave ship.

 

The assassin looked up, his head spinning with questions, but the elf was gone. Vanished without a sound in the handful of seconds he’d taken to look things over. He’d been right. Ataashi had a choice to make and he had to make it now. If this information was correct he could be down at pier twenty-two by the time the ship landed. But if the folder was wrong, or if it was a trap, he could be walking into a very dangerous situation. He knew what he should do, he knew it was a dumb move to go after them like this, unprepared, on a hunch. He could just walk away. He _should_ just walk away.

 

Ataashi tucked the sheaf into his trousers and took off down the docks in a full sprint, foot falls thumping quietly, drummed out by the beating of the waves as the tide moved in.

 

…

He got to the twenty-second pier just as the crew started mooring. Ataashi managed to slip, unnoticed, into a shadowed corner, observing the ship. A plank walkway lowered for a man who seemed to be the captain. The man, well-muscled and well-dressed, descended the plank followed by three armed guards. They were shirtless, scarred, intimidating, and carried weapons they clearly knew how to handle. More stood on the dock for the transfer, and several still on the ship for ‘handling the cargo.’ It was probably reasonable to assume some guards in the hold, as well. All told, at least a dozen, probably closer to twenty.

 

And here was Ataashi. One man, two daggers, and some shadows. His lips pulled back, bearing his teeth in a dangerous flash of white. Well, he had always liked a challenge.

 

“Two died on the journey,” the captain was saying to a man in long, rich robes, a hood pulled up over his face. Ataashi made a note of the colors, burgundy and gold, though anyone who had been in the trade for more than a second knew not to wear their house’s markers. “They were sickly, not my fault.”

 

“I trust,” the robed figure was saying, “you secured the bodies, as asked?” There was something off about the voice, it echoed oddly, lending it an otherworldly air.

 

The captain nodded. “Got ‘em in the barrels. Naturally, I’ll give you a discount on the cargo, what with some of it being damaged and all.”

 

“Naturally,” the man replied, as he looked down at a ledger. “Always good to do business with you, Captain.”

 

Ataashi sighed inwardly at that. He had hopped the ship was just a cargo ship. That the captain had been kept in the dark about the cargo. Couldn’t fault a man for taking a job and not looking too closely at it. But it was clear he’d been doing this a long time, which meant it probably made up the bulk of his trade. Slavery was profitable, after all. So it wasn’t just the man in the robes, but the captain as well. He’d make notes of them, try to track them down and end their business.

 

The rage bubbled up, unbidden and unwelcome. He was looking at some of the worst scum on the planet. And what did he do? Crouched in the shadows and watched. He wanted to slip behind them and slash their throats. There was a gang of armed guards, two figures of authority, a ship full of people who needed him and precious little time.

 

Ataashi slipped out of the shadows and into the light. “Well, isn’t this cozy.”

…

 

Feladara moved silently across rooftops toward the pier. He’d been tracking this shipment, waiting for its arrival, plotting. He’d intended to do the job himself, but then the Dragon appeared in the city. The elf rolled his eyes. _Really? Dragon?_ He thought, not for the first time. _Qunlat for “Dragon?” What a ridiculous name._

 

Over the past weeks he researched the assassin, learning his style, his record, following his trail. The last was difficult, as it ended rather abruptly. That alone was a plethora of information. To vanish as completely as it did, Ataashi had to have had significant contacts. That could be useful. So while the trail did not lead to where Feladara had expected, it did lead him to the assassination of Cervidus and he had to admit – that was well-done. It seemed the baby assassin excelled at planning, which made sense given what he knew of the man. However, Feladara predicted, it also meant he’d be somewhat lacking on the opposite end of the spectrum.

If he was being truthful, Ataashi surprised him. Most assassins were self-serving by nature and this one he had expected to be doubly so. Giving him the information he had tonight should have ended a very specific way. Every other assassin he knew would have taken one look at the assignment and dismissed it as foolish. There was no coin, no real information. Slaver ships were notoriously well-guarded, nearly impossible to take by surprise. Da’isenatha had no back up, no reason to trust the elf who had handed him the file, and no plan.

 

Feladara felt a little leap in his chest as he climbed into the overlook he’d scouted earlier in the day, little more than a nook between two roofs. The baby dragon was just... _good_. A baffling truth that hit him like a blow the moment Ataashi took off running down the dock to face the impossible. Not because he had any reason to trust the information, but because there _might_ have been a ship full of slaves that no one else cared about.

 

Ataashi was not one to sit idly by. Feladara had unraveled that the moment he put the connections across his contracts together. About seven, he guessed. Good kills, impressive “accidents.” He doubted anyone else drew the dots, found the links. They were all Magisters, but most assassinations were. They were all deplorable people, but most Magisters were. They all practiced Blood Magic, but who in this Creators’ damned city didn’t? No, with the exception of one death, Feladara’s research revealed a pattern: the Slates. Each of the confirmed kills lead to a Magister with a Sanguine Slate. The Dragon was picking off the scum of Thedas.

 

So he knew the Dragon was a man with a code, he knew he was a man of action, but now, seeing him run off, unprepared into danger, on the word of an elf he didn’t know and had no reason to believe? Well, now Feladara knew he was good. And, _Creators,_ if that wasn’t confusing.

 

He shook his head, crouching low in his hiding place. He’d been here during the day-lit hours, moving crates and barrels to strategic positions around the dock so that they offered convenient cover, leverage points, and escape. No one even questioned him. An elf doing manual labor on the docks? Why, he was just another slave. So he was here when the assassin slipped into a shadow. Ataashi observed before striking even though time was short. A point in his favor. But he didn’t wait long enough. He _should_ wait until the chaos of unloading had begun before slipping out and taking them by surprise, but here they were, only just exchanging pleasantries, when Ataashi stepped out of his shade.

 

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” he said, a tall black figure, broad chested and projecting a practiced indifference. All eyes turned to him, weapons slid out of sheathes with metallic hisses, clubs hoisted onto shoulders. Feladara groaned inwardly.

 

Ataashi held up his hands, placating. “Now now,” he said, “no need to be so edgy. I was just out for a stroll and saw your very fine ship, and I thought to myself, ‘what could such a fine vessel be doing here in the middle of the night? And why is the port master missing from his post?’ All very curious, wouldn’t you say?”

 

It was the captain who stepped forward. That was good, at least. The captain would try to buy the assassin off, instead of outright killing him. It would be better to avoid that. Feladara would feel a little guilty. The slaver was a man of ledgers. If paying the stranger off would be cheaper than replacing several of his guardsmen, that would be the preferable route.

 

“It’s dangerous to be on the docks at night, friend,” the captain said. His teeth flashed in a smile that didn’t so much as touch his eyes. “Stories like this one don’t often end well for passersby.”

 

Attashi smiled back. Feladara had to admit, he did look like he knew what he was doing. To the guards probably. Maybe even the magister and the captain. “Are you going to tell me a story?”

 

The captain stroked his beard slowly. “Aye. The way I see it, you wandered out here on a late-night walk.” The man tossed a small pouch. It landed with a loud clink just before Ataashi’s feet. “You had a wonderful stroke of fortune and found a small pouch of coin. Then your feet carried you home.”

 

The captain waited. Most likely expecting the man to bend over, retrieve the coin, and be on his way. Ataashi did eye the pouch, but did not move to grab it. “Not a very interesting story,” he quipped.

 

Feladara covered his eyes and shook his head. Now would have been a good time to make them think he was going to slip away, then, when they were at ease attack without warning. Ataashi chose to provoke instead.

 

“Interesting?” The captain said, smiling that dangerous smile again. “Perhaps not. But it has a happy ending. There’s another way the story can go, but it’s a tragic tale.” Ataashi crossed his arms and nodded, waiting on the captain, calling him out. “Poor man, just out for walk, ran afoul of some muggers. Beat him to death. Took his coin. Only left the empty pouch.”

 

Ataashi bobbed his head slowly. “That _is_ tragic,” he agreed solemnly. The guards on the ship seemed to have been bored by the exchange. Their eyes wandered, some picked at their nails or teeth with the point of a knife. Feladara could see some of the guards on the pier losing interest in the exchange as well. They were probably all used to this kind of transaction for dealing with unwanted attention. All the sweet summer child had to do was take the coin and act like he was leaving.

 

But did he?

 

Ataashi toed the sack with his boot, flicking it back over to the captain who caught it against his chest. “Not particularly interested in slaver’s coin,” he spat.

 

Feladara winced. Well, now he’d see the man in action, at least. The captain sighed, stepping back and signaling the closest goons. They closed the gap and strode toward the assassin. He didn’t seem fazed but a slow smile split his face. Creators, the man looked positively delighted. When the guards were within weapon’s reach the assassin moved. Well, at least he was fast if not subtle. The two guards went down before anyone really realized what was happening. Blood bloomed hot and fast across the dirt white of their loose shirts. It seemed Ataashi favored stabs to slashes. How interesting. Stabs took more effort and more time, but it seemed the Dragon had an intimate knowledge of anatomy, piercing deliberate spots as opposed to placing the blade anywhere it would stick.

 

Of course then the captain signaled and all the remaining guards, about seven braces by his count, charged from the dock and down the plank from the ship. Swords, knives, clubs and spears all turned toward the assassin who, because he had slid between the smaller threat of the two guards, was now right in the middle of the pier’s thrust. Feladara’s hands slid back, drawing his twin-bladed daggers.

Ataashi now had precious few options. He could go into the water. He wouldn’t be able to stop them after that, but he could get away. He could move backward down the dock, hoping he didn’t trip on the bodies he had made, or slip on their blood. That, at least, would offer him more maneuverability. He could try to climb onto the ship. He was probably more likely to fall into the drink than actually make the leap, but it was a choice.

 

Ataashi chose to walk backward. A good a choice as any. Provided he had decent proprioception and could navigate the dock without having to take his eyes off the advancing threats, it might even be the right choice.

 

The guards pressed in as the assassin steadily placed one foot behind the other. He stepped over the bodies effortlessly but the goons circled around. Half avoided the bodies all together, half surged forward.

 

“Dammit,” Feladara hissed to himself. “They’re flaking you, Da’isenatha.”

 

He waited, watching and hoping Ataashi would do something clever and impress him. Prove him wrong. Maybe even not get killed. The assassin backed down the pier and set himself in a corner. It was smart. Ataashi thought he was all alone and with no one to guard his back at least this way they couldn’t charge him from behind. But he couldn’t free himself either. Even from his perch Feladara could see the Dragon’s eyes had gone wild, like a trapped animal. He reached out, pulling on the edge of the glove on his left hand.

 

Feladara didn’t wait to see what trick he was going to try. There was little chance of his survival if the elf didn’t intervene. He’d given the assassin the job to see him in action, not get him killed. He slipped from the rooftop silently and made a bird call. The guards looked up but Ataashi, to Feladara’s great relief, actually looked in the direction of the sound. He caught the assassin’s eye for a mere moment, and gestured for him to cover his eyes. Then, without waiting to see if the sweet baby assassin did as he was told, the elf tossed a flash flask in the center of the group.

 

Bright white light bloomed, making the guards call out in confusion and cover their eyes. Too late. Feladara slid in, dancing between them with nimble steps and graceful spins. His dual-bladed daggers slashed through the air, blurs of red and black in the night, connecting with flesh that offered no more resistance than soft cheese. Crimson splattered around him from cuts both shallow and slick. Cries died in strangled gurgles as throats split open. Some of the guards lived – those who turned to flee. He let them. The ones that stayed to challenge him, however, those ones found their death slow and painful, covered in scores of cuts as they lay bleeding out. A blood mage could have a field day with this massacre. Good thing the magister had already fled.

 

Feladara stopped moving at last, his breath coming hard. To his left the baby assassin looked a bit moonstruck, but he hadn’t been blinded and he held a stance of readiness. There were still some guards down the pier, and the captain to dispatch. At least, it seemed, Ataashi knew the fight wasn’t over.

 

Feladara sauntered over to the captain and knelt before him, lazily wiping the blood from his daggers’ blades with a clean spot on the tunic of one of the guards Ataashi had felled. “I didn’t care much for your story,” he drawled.

 

The captain drew his sword as the elf stood and held it out in a shaking hand. One blade he tucked away, the other he spun idly between his fingers. “Don’t much care for you, either, Frederick Livingstone. Got a bit of dwarf in your line? You look it, all square and muscled. And that name, that’s a Deep Roads name if I ever heard one.”

 

The captain looked confused and frightened. Good. “Wha… why are you talking about my name?”

 

“Because you shame your ancestors,” Feladara said. “Slaving? Good coin, sure, but hardly honest work.” He could hear Ataashi moving behind him, coming closer. “Order your men below to unchain the slaves, then order them to leave. If one lifts a weapon or hand against me, you all die.”

 

The captain growled. “You don’t honestly expect me to part with my cargo,” he scoffed. “I’ve been in business this long because I adhere to one rule: I don’t part with money or goods I don’t have to.”

 

The shuffling of Ataashi stopped somewhere to his left and back. “You’ve been in this business for this long for one reason and one reason only, shem,” Feladara laughed wickedly.

 

“Oh,” Captain Livingstone asked disdainfully, “and what reason is that?”

 

“You avoided me,” the elf hissed through his teeth, dangerous and sharp. “Now, do as I say.”

 

He did. From inside the ship’s hold came the rattling of chains, sounds of confusion and dismay. Then the guards came out, walked down the plank, and, after double checking their orders, retreated down the pier to find a tavern. They were lucky. Feladara smiled and turned around to face Ataashi. It put Captain Livingstone at his back, a move that was almost guaranteed to provoke the man into attacking. Ataashi’s eyes went wide a fleeting moment before he charged past. Feladara spun just in time to see the assassin bend down, tuck his shoulder into the Captain’s abdomen, tackling him. Before the pair fell into the bay with a loud splash, Feladara saw a blade slip between Livingstone’s ribs. A few minutes of splashing later Ataashi, wet, dripping, but unharmed, hauled himself back onto the dock.

 

He flopped over onto his back on the wood. “I hate the docks,” he panted. “I hate the ocean.”

 

“Then why did you choose this moment to take a swim?” Feladara asked, amusement crinkling his eyes and coloring his words.

 

“Wha,” Ataashi objected rolling over and climbing to his hands and knees. “Because he was trying to run you through with his sword!”

 

Feladara let out a soft breath of air that was almost a chuckle. “Of course he was, Dragonling, I turned my back to him.”

 

Ataashi stood. “Yeah, that was dumb. Rookie mistake. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

 

He barked a short laugh, gone as soon as it had come, but he was truly tickled by what he heard. “Oh, sweet summer child,” he said, walking forward and meeting Ataashi at the end of the pier. “I really wanted to kill him. Better to let him think otherwise. Cockiness often overcomes good sense.”

 

“I am not a child,” Ataashi huffed. “I’ve got to have at least five years on you!”

Feladara smiled, just a tiny quirk of his lips, pulling up at one corner so quickly it was little more than a twitch. “You’d think you could have used some of that time to work on your sloppy footwork, Da'isenatha.”

 

Ataashi opened his mouth to object again and the elf just couldn’t help himself. He took one easy step forward, placing his foot behind the taller man, distracting him by moving into his personal space. He was all batting lashes and innocence looking up at him. A hand, coy and flirtatious, lingered on his chest – and then he pushed. Ataashi’s face became a mask of confusion and then resigned understanding as he tumbled back into the water.

 

Ataashi reemerged eventually, dragging himself back out of the water and onto the dock, soaked and sulky, looking like nothing so much as a puppy who had been forced to take a bath. The elf snorted, vaguely charmed by the sight, and leaned down, offering him a hand up. “Sorry,” he said, still chuckling, “I couldn’t resist.”

 

Ataashi nodded, looking contrite. “I probably deserved it.”

 

The shuffling on the deck of the ship drew their focus. The cargo – men, women, and children of varying ages and races – emerged and looked down at the pair of them. “I have to take care of this, Dragonling. Won’t take but a minute. Go down to the Ebb and Flow. It’s a dive, but I know the owner. We can talk there.”

 

Honestly, Feladara had expected the man to argue, but he must have been truly miserable, covered in seawater as he was, because he just nodded and trudged off down the pier.

 

…

 

Ataashi sipped his ale. It was sour and terrible. Wet and hungry and cold as he was he must have painted quite the brooding picture. When he took the seat in the corner all tables around it had mysteriously cleared, leaving him in a perfect half-circle of emptiness. Which was fine by him. This night had not gone as planned. He kicked himself, staring into his mug. For a night to go as planned you had to have a plan. He shouldn’t have taken the job. He’s almost resorting to blowing his cover, he almost let the traders get away, and he had ended up taking a swim. Two swims!

 

“Oh, you shouldn’t drink the ale,” a voice said, close but Ataashi hadn’t heard anyone approach. On the rough wooden bench across the table sat the elf who had contracted him. Who had saved him. He didn’t know if he wanted to punch him or thank him. As a compromise he passed the elf a second mug.

 

“Ataashi,” he said by way of introduction.

 

“Feladara,” the elf replied, raising the mug and drinking from it. He grimaced, as he swallowed the acerbic liquid. “Quite the display, back there.”

 

Ataashi barked a bitter laugh. “A comedy of errors,” he agreed. “Clearly you didn’t need me. So what was the point? Why go to the trouble?”

 

“I’ve been in Tevinter a while,” Feladara replied. “Been doing work like you saw tonight. Got to know the players. Then, suddenly there’s a new player on the scene. Pre-vetted. That was bound to draw some attention.” He sipped again, barely grimacing this time. “I’ve got to say, I’m impressed with the things you’ve done in Tevinter. The contracts you’ve accepted, the world is brighter for their deaths. Buuuuut,” he drawled, “that drew attention too. Most assassins don’t care about the target, just the pay.”

 

“So, what,” Ataashi asked, turning the wooden mug in his fingers. It was leaking. “You contracted me because you were curious?”

 

The elf smiled. Hardly a twitch of his lips, but his blue eyes twinkled and for a moment his breath caught in his throat. “There’s a better reason?” Ataashi smirked. “Besides, I _was_ curious. Those hits were impressive, actually. Elaborate. Every inch of them screamed accident. I kinda expected them to look too coincidental, but you made them messy enough. How many since you arrived in Tevinter?”

 

Ataashi tried to suppress his smile. “A dozen,” he answered, drinking. _Why am I just telling him these things?_ It was a good question. He could have said anything, refused to say, offered a re-direct or an outright lie, but he didn’t. There was something about the elf that made him speak true.

 

The elf let out a long low whistle. “Impressive indeed,” he said sincerely. “I’d only pegged your for seven, eight maybe.” Ataashi felt oddly pleased, warmth spreading through him.

 

“But there’s a reason you only take contracts like that,” the elf continued, and he felt his stomach knot. He couldn’t know about the Slates, could he? “You’re good at planning,” he whispered, a conspiratorial glint flashing in his eyes. “Given time, even if it’s a crunch, you can plan something that is juuuuust right. But in the moment?” Feladara smirked, letting the question hang.

 

“That’s why you gave me the information,” he said, realization dawning. His jaw fell open, his eyes went wide. “You wanted to see how I handled improvisation. It was a test.” The elf nodded. “And you got your answer,” he sighed dejectedly.

 

“Oh yes,” Feladara chuckled. “You proved your youth,” he agreed. “But you’re perceptive. I’ll give you that. The jab about my gloves? That was well-placed.”

 

Ataashi felt the little bloom of pride returning. Somewhere, far north of him, his lover was amused. It mingled with the pride, forcing him to smile. “Well,” he said nodding to the worn leather that covered the elf’s palms, “You could use a new pair.”

 

“And elf in Tevinter wearing a pair of new gloves, Ataashi?” he scoffed. “I might as well wear a sign that says ‘I’m not a slave. Be suspicious of me!’” _Well,_ he thought, _that’s a good point._ There were not many free elves in Tevinter, and there were even fewer slaves with masters generous enough to keep their clothing in good repair.

 

“You,” the elf continued, “on the other hand. You’re dressed well. Not richly, but leather armor, dapple-dyed cloak, gloves so new the black suede isn’t worn down, not even on your palms. If I didn’t know better I’d just assume you’re a good enough assassin to have made considerable coin.” He sipped, letting the quip linger between them. Ataashi furrowed his brow. Hadn’t he just been complimenting him?

 

“But twelve jobs in four months? Even with the rush charge you aren’t making enough for this ensemble. And, let’s be honest, I saw you in action tonight. You haven’t been taking other jobs on the side. So, I do know better.” Feladara winked at him. “Those clothes say something else to me.”

“And what’s that?” Ataashi asked a little defensively.

 

“You’re used to having money to spend,” the elf replied easily. “You’re not from Tevinter, though. So you’re not some revolutionary from a high house. From the south then, I’m guessing. Some minor noble family. Money enough so you don’t wonder about where your next meal comes from, but not enough to convince you being an assassin is stupid.”

 

There was something oddly comforting about the way Feladara talked to him. He wasn’t resorting to empty flattery, like the Alta, nor was he lying. He was friendly, almost. Making small jokes that landed without the heat of insults. He seemed… genuine. A genuine assassin. Who knew such a creature existed?

 

“‘Guessing’, he says,” Ataashi smirked.

 

“Educated,” Feladara admitted, that amusement lighting his eyes once more. “That being said, I have a proposition for you.”

 

“Oh,” Ataashi said raising his voice ever so slightly and looking around the room. “You hear that? He’s propositioning me. And we’ve only had one date.”

 

Feladara barked a short laugh, an actual smile there and gone in a flash of white teeth. “Tempting,” he said into his tankard. He took a long pull and set it back down. “But until you learn not to announce yourself to the targets, I probably shouldn’t become too emotionally invested.”

 

Ataashi felt the blood rush to his face, hot and red. “That was not my finest moment,” he agreed, ducking his head and hiding the red face in his mug as he let the sour ale pucker his tongue.

 

“That’s okay, Da'isenatha,” Feladara said soothingly. “We all started somewhere.” He reached out, resting his hand on Ataashi’s wrist briefly. It was gone in a second, back on the wooden tankard. “Look, clearly you had a good teacher. But you left them behind?” Ataashi nodded. “So, run with me.”

 

Ataashi blinked. “What? Why?”

 

The elf let out a low, long-suffering sigh. “Creators, it’s a good thing you’re pretty.” He shook his head before leaning low over his mug and fixing Ataashi with a serious gaze. “Okay, cards on the table. There’s precious few good people in this cesspit. Even fewer are clever _and_ good. You took one look at that manifest, worked out the truth of what I had handed you, and jumped right in. No plan, nothing. Smart? No. But you had to do it.

 

“Now, I figure it would be a waste if you got a blade between your ribs just because you don’t know how to watch your back. So, let me watch it for you. Until you can do for yourself,” Feladara assured.

 

“You saw the part where I fell in the bay, right?” Ataashi said dumbly.

 

Feladara’s lips quirked up to the right. “Best laugh I’ve had in weeks. But you did fall in because you were trying to protect me. Didn’t need it, of course, but intention counts for a lot,” he concluded somewhat awkwardly.

 

Ataashi smiled, a candid, unrestrained grin. “Humility is a new sensation for you, isn’t it?”

 

The elf rolled his eyes and finished his ale, scraping his chair across the wooden floor as he stood. “Let’s go somewhere that serves real food.”

 

Ataashi focused his attention on the bond. Amusement, a hint of longing, and a great deal of exasperation. He wouldn’t be missed at home for a while as his lover was clearly still otherwise engaged. “I bought the ale,” he said, standing to follow, “food’s on you.”

 

“You paid for that ale?” The elf exclaimed as they left. “Did you let the server flank you too?”

 

They walked. Amused laughter and embarrassed grumbling mixing with the slow slap of sea waves on the pier.

 

 

 

AN: A wild elf appears!

*SQUEEEEEEEEEEE* OMG I have been waiting to give you this chapter forever. For. Ev. Er. *bounces* 

I am sure you have all the questions and theories now. *mwahaha* Thank you for sticking with me. I hope you’re love our new addition as much as I do.

 

~Love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editor/artist: Eclectify @ http://eclectify.tumblr.com/
> 
> Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/rikkitikkicathy


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

 

Dorian’s arrival home occurred uneventfully, as he knew it would. Feeling the steady ebb and flow of emotion through the Lenen'hima'sa over the course of the early evening meant he knew Fitzwilliam’s assassin counterpart was out and about once more. It ought to worry him that so much of that emotion was thrill. Well, if he was being honest it did worry him, but it ought to have worried him more. There’d been a moment earlier in the evening where panic stabbed through the bond so piercing and sharp that the tea cup fell from his hand to the floor. He felt an urge to run, to charge toward Fitzwilliam’s location as swiftly as his feet would carry him and bring all of his magic to bear against whatever threat his lover faced. But then the panic dissipated quickly, smoothed out by the twining soothing of relief and awe.

He made apologies for his clumsiness, blamed the broken porcelain on a sudden headache, and excused himself shortly after. Which meant he had the entire trip home to focus on the bond. Some of the emotions and impressions he was able to pick out Dorian knew were only due to knowing Fitzwilliam. Amusement and joy. Desire and respect. A hard task not to be jealous, he had to admit. Not jealous of the feelings, however. It was a jealously more of the one allowed the privilege to see Fitzwilliam that way. Happy and unburdened. So rare a sight these days with the rogue wearing so many masks, and their alone time so precious and fleeting.

Dorian urged Fitzwilliam home. It was selfish, he knew, but it had been a very long day and he wanted nothing more than to wrap him in his arms and hear his laugh. He wished, not for the first time, he could talk through the bond. Of course given how long it had taken them to get a handle on it, and the new leap in the bond’s abilities it might be best if that never happened. Not being able to disguise any thoughts would have its disadvantages. Dorian pondered for a moment if the new manifestations of the bond might be linked to whatever was happening to his magic. It seemed likely, given the Lenen'hima'sa was certainly one of the most pure expressions of magic he had ever encountered.

He stared into the fire, letting his mind wrap around everything that was happening. If rumors in court could be believed, and he was sure at least a few could be, then his was not the only magic acting up. It did seem it was the most severe case, though that could just be because he knew the truth of his hiccups and only tell of anyone else’s. He didn’t like that one bit. It was better when the mishaps happened just to him, or even remaining far-off rumors of others. But now, with the stories popping up with increasing frequency? It was becoming clear something much bigger was happening.

A creak and thud in the adjoining room drew him from his thoughts, his head whipping to the side to chase the sound. That would be Fitzwilliam then, crawling in through the bedroom window like a common thief. The temptation to go to him was strong and Dorian found himself rising, walking toward the tug of Fitz’s consciousness without a care for allowing him to comport himself and store away the tolls of his trade.

Darkness greeted him. Apparently, Fitzwilliam hadn’t bothered to light the lamps in the bed chamber. He could hear shuffling as he exerted his will, the smallest hint of it, to light a lantern. It still flew to life in a burst of flame, but at least this time he didn’t shatter the glass and ignite the table. Something of a relief, to not set one’s appointments on fire on regular basis.

His eyes swept the room. The room that, for all Dorian had heard him enter, lacked any sign of Fitzwilliam.  “Busy night, Amatus?” he asked. There was a grunt from the corner and finally Dorian spotted his lover.

The laughter, full and amused and affectionate, bubbled up at the sight Fitzwilliam made. “What happened to you?” he chuckled.

There before him stood a man in all the trappings of stealth… only they weren’t quite as black as they’d been before, crusted as they were in white patches of drying sea water. Fitzwilliam’s hair was also a sight but to top it all off, the rogue was hopping on one foot trying to remove a soft leather boot which the water had swollen to his foot. The mighty assassin had returned and he looked like a drowned rat. “Festis bei umo canavarum,” Dorian wheezed, words shaking with laughter. “Amatus, you look like… your mark a mermaid, yes? That would explain all,” he gestured to Fitzwilliam’s state with a roll of his wrist. “...this.”

“Ha. Ha,” Fitzwilliam grunted, finally pulling the boot free and tumbling into a wall.

Dorian couldn’t help it. He doubled over clutching at his stomach, his laughter so robust that it became nothing more than silent wheezing exhales. The glare Fitzwilliam favoured him with did little to help the situation.

He was not surprised to find that leather became particularly hard to peel off when wet and salted. Dorian attempted to breathe as, out of tear-blurred eyes, he watched Fitzwilliam strip free of the rest of his costume. Finally, he could look at his lover without being taken by the amusement, though that had more to do with Fitz’s mostly-nakedness than anything.

“So,” Dorian drawled slowly as he moved to lounge on the bed. He stretched across it perpendicularly, propping up on his elbows as he kicked up his feet. He settled his head in his hands and looked up at Fitzwilliam. “How did your date go? Tell me everything. Was he handsome?”

The glare Fitzwilliam shot him would have been withering – had he not been half-naked with wet, limp hair hanging down into his eyes. “You know I can’t tell you about the assassination details,” he grouched.

Dorian rolled his eyes, kicking his feet back and forth in the air behind him as one did in situations such as this. “Who said anything about your boring assassination job? I want to know about the hunk you were admiring.”

He watched with some delight as Fitzwilliam’s eyes went wide with understanding. “You… felt that. Of course you felt that. I’m an idiot.” He vanished behind the screen and returned a moment later in a pair of loose, thin trousers. Dorian’s eyes followed him as, worrying a thumbnail with his teeth, Fitzwilliam crossed the room. He sat beside him on the bed, one leg hanging off the side, one folded up on the top of the bed so he was turned toward Dorian. He was quiet for long moments looking all kinds of guilty. Dorian found it deeply amusing. Finally, he opened his mouth. “I, uh, I made a new contact tonight,” he stammered awkwardly. “An elf. He kinda pulled me out of a tight spot.”

“I’ll bet he did.” Dorian lifted a suggestive eyebrow.

Fitzwilliam’s face went a very satisfying shade of red. “I-it wasn’t like that!”

“Of course not, Amatus.” Dorian grinned and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Fitzwilliam’s knee. “You’re not that kind of man,” he chuckled lightly. “You’d tell me.” Fitzwilliam nodded silently, unwilling to meet his eyes. “So,” Dorian said, reaching out and poking his side, “tell me.”

Dorian’s brow furrowed when Fitz turned his head and looked out the window, avoiding him. “Amatus?” he asked. A wave of guilt flitted across the bond. “Ah…” Dorian sighed as he moved to sit up on the bed. “I understand.”

Fitzwilliam’s head dropped, looking at the fine woven blanket, fingers picking idly at a loose royal blue thread. “Can’t hide anything from you,” Fitz grumbled somberly.

“Apparently not,” Dorian agreed, voice low and serious. “I know now.” He let that linger, felt the pulsing anxiety from his man, as he reached out, fingers turning that head to look at him with a gentle, insistent, pressure. “You’re being stupid again.”

Fitzwilliam tore his head from the touch, whipping it almost violently to the side. “You don’t know what I…”

“What you what?” Dorian asked, a little heat creeping in. “What you thought? What you felt? Maker, Fitzwilliam, you had an attraction. A flirtation. Who cares?”

“I care,” he growled turning back to look at him. “Our life has enough complications. We’ve come to a good place in our relationship. I don’t want to throw a stick into the spokes.”

And Dorian was laughing again. Which was the wrong thing to do, if the angry tightness of Fitz’s mouth and the sharp heat in the bond were anything to go buy. Dorian reached out, touching his shoulder and managing to force out a broken apology, “I-I’m sorry, I just… Give me a moment. I’m sorry.” He forced the laughter down, and what a battle it was. It kept trying to bubble back up in manic giggles but he gave it no purchase. Finally, he had reined himself in enough to speak seriously about the situation. “We’ve talked about this before,” he said softly, reaching out his hand and squeezing Fitz’s leg briefly. “And while I agree our life hardly needs any more facets there are some things which are beyond even your ability to plan, dear, sweet Fitzwilliam.”

“But what if something happens?” he asked slowly. It sounded very much like something Fitzwilliam didn’t want to so much as think about. Saying it aloud must have been trying.

“If something happens,” Dorian said slowly, “I expect you to tell me. And then we can deal with any feelings you may or may not have. But those are problems for future Fitz. As you are so fond of telling me – let us not meet trouble halfway.” There was a long stretch of silent stillness but finally Fitzwilliam nodded in agreement and the tightly coiled knot of tension between them loosed. “Good.” Dorian ginned. “Now, tell me about the handsome elf who got your knickers wet… literally,” he smirked, nodding to the pile of wet assassin blacks.

Fitz’s cheeks colored slightly. “I, uh, well he was Dalish,” he began awkwardly. “He had the Vallaslin on his forehead and down the bridge of his nose. A tree. That makes him pledged to Mythall, I think.” Dorian smiled fondly as Fitz’s hands fidgeted in his own lap, eyes very intent on them.

“Interesting,” Dorian chimed in. “Not many free elves in Tevinter. And a Dalish at that. What’s he doing here, I wonder. Not many trees in Minrathous.” Fitzwilliam shrugged. “You didn’t grill him?” He lifted a brow. “That doesn’t sound like you. You must have been quite distracted indeed.” Fitz’s face flushed further and Dorian could tell he’d hit the nail on the head. “What else?” He leaned forward, crisscrossing his legs and propping his elbows up on them, once more making a rest for his head with his hands.

“His eyes,” Fitzwilliam sighed. Dorian suppressed a chuckle at the way it made “The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Sealer of the Breach” sound like a moonstruck adolescent. “They’re so… expressive. He hardly ever smiles, and if so only for a flash but his eyes.” Dorian made an encouraging noncommittal sound as Fitzwilliam met his gaze. “Oh and the way he fought, Dorian! It was amazing. Like whirlwind. A thousand little cuts. Nothing like the way I fight at all. Well, I mean we both use daggers, so I guess it’s similar in that way. A-and I guess we’re both rogues. And fond of making a point with clever words. I know that sounds like it’s the same but it isn’t!” Dorian could not help the grin that took his face as Fitzwilliam’s babbling picked up pace.

Fitz must have noticed it because he grinned sheepishly, dropping his head back down to his fidgeting hands. “He was impressive,” he said softly.

“Sounds like,” Dorian agreed. Fitzwilliam buried his face in his hands, groaning. He was clearly embarrassed and it was charming. The flustered babbling, the flushed cheeks – all utterly endearing and Dorian was a bad man to be enjoying every, single minute of it. “So, an impressive Dalish elf with expressive eyes who is both like you and not at all like you. You have quite the way with description, Amatus. I’m positively hooked. Do go on.”

“Augh,” he exhaled, “I don’t know what else you want me to say, Dorian. I don’t know how to do this, this – ” he waved his hand helplessly. “I don’t know how to gossip about boys!”

Dorian couldn’t stop the burst of helpless laughter if he tried. Fitzwilliam’s exclamation sending him into silent fits of laughter so deep he shook with the force of them. When he could speak – and the impressive glare Fitzwilliam sent his way certainly aided in curbing his laughter, if not his delight – he reached up to capture one of those waving hands and draw it to his lips. With a quick kiss to the knuckles in apology, Dorian smirked.

“I am certain, beneath all the endearing fluster, there is plenty you have to say on your new elvhen companion.” He managed to arrange his features into some semblance of seriousness, even if his lips kept twitching. “It is never too late to learn how to gossip about boys, Fitzwilliam.”

Fitzwilliam sighed, somewhat placated by the outpouring of genuine affection. “I don’t even know his name, Dorian.” He smiled, chuckling lightly to himself. “His code name is Elvhen for elfroot of all things. Just ridiculous. That’s not intimidating at all.” He squeezed Dorian’s hand slightly, still blushing, but grinning now too, slightly more at ease than he was a moment ago. It wasn’t much, but something Dorian could capitalize upon.

“Elvhen for elfoot?” Dorian quirked an eyebrow, curiosity piqued further at the mention of the rather ridiculous code name. “Well, it hardly has any sense of drama about it, that’s for certain. Perhaps, for the elf, it has some significance? Or his own personal joke?”

Dorian found himself enjoying, not just hearing about Fitzwilliam’s new elvhen companion, but also this little insight into his other life – even if it was only through endless teasing for his Amatus’ new ‘crush.’ Through tales of this new addition into Fitzwilliam’s assassin counterpart’s life, Dorian felt just that little bit more connected to a part of Fitzwilliam that – through necessity – he was kept separate from.

“Ridiculous names aside,” Dorian continued, squeezing Fitzwilliam’s hand in return. “The elf seems to have made quite the impression. With his...what was it again?” Dorian put on his best doe eyes and sighed dreamily, “Expressive eyes.”

A hand came out of nowhere, swift and sure, but lacking real force, and smacked him on the shoulder. “Yes,” Fitzwilliam grit out petulantly. “The eyes, and the hair, and how perfectly he moved. Even on the docks he made hardly a sound.” He was babbling now, practically gushing. How quaint. “And he bought me dinner, after knocking me into the drink, so that was kind of him.”

“Ah, so he is the one responsible for the very fetching state I found you in upon your return home.” Dorian smirked, endlessly amused at how quickly Fitzwilliam fell into his enamored gushing. Quite the impression indeed.  “I was hoping I’d get some explanation out of you for that curious state of affairs. It’s not like you to be so distracted, even with an elf who moves so perfectly, that you’d take an impromptu swim, Fitzwilliam. Was he that captivating?”

“The swim wasn’t entirely his fault,” he admitted. “He was being attacked from behind. I… defended and ended up in the water.” Fitz grimaced suspiciously before continuing. “I did owe him one, but I think the second dip was unnecessary.”

“So the elf whom, as previously mentioned, moved oh so perfectly and whose skill you enthusiastically praise turned his back to a threat and required rescue?” Dorian smirked, sensing a bit more to the tale that Fitzwilliam wasn’t sharing. “Hardly seems all that competent a rogue then, does he?”

Fitzwilliam groaned. “Okay, fine, he did it to provoke the target and I rushed in all valiant and stupid, are you happy now?”

“Immensely.” Dorian grinned at the thought of Fitzwilliam, cutting a gallant silhouette in black, surging in to save the day without thought to why an obviously skilled rogue would turn their back on a threat. Only seeing someone in danger, someone who needed help. His smile turned soft around the edges, even as his amusement stubbornly clung to the curve of his mouth. “You are truly a noble and dashing figure. I am sure the elf appreciated your heroic deeds.”

“Well,” Fitz said slowly. He lifted his free hand and began inspecting his fingernails. They were, of course, filthy after his night out. “He did proposition me, so I think that counts as appreciation.”

Well, now this tale was a might more interesting. Dorian smirked, eyebrow quirked upwards in question. “Did he now? Is this what all the flustered confusion and misplaced guilt is about?”

“It’s not like that,” Fitz scoffed. “I doubt he’s interested in me that way. It was a proposition to work together. I mean really. We haven’t even had our first date. What kind of man do you take me for?” He was making a joke, but the half-smile looked entirely pleased by the notion the elf might return his admiration.

“Work together?” So this fellow rogue was also an assassin? Dorian wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Especially considering the somewhat sensitive nature of the plans in place behind Fitzwilliam’s work. Plans Dorian knew existed but couldn’t know the whole of – something that still frustrated him to no end. If only because he was boundlessly curious about Fitzwilliam’s new profession. “That seems... awfully convenient. That your elf should suddenly appear with offers of partnership.” Even to his own ears he sounded entirely too suspicious. But what was the use of disguising it when Fitz could feel the uncomfortable pricking of it across the bond?

Fitzwilliam grimaced. “I know what it sounds like, Serah,” he said carefully. “I-I can’t tell you everything but, he put together some sensitive information about me and… about our targets. I need to get close to him, at least until I know how much he knows.” Then the face shifted from sincere reassurance to a piqued glower. “And he is not ‘my elf’,” he huffed.

“Fitzwilliam, you are entirely too perceptive and a remarkable judge of character.” Dorian squeezed Fitzwilliam’s hand, accepting that sincere reassurance with a small smile. “If you feel secure in accepting the elf’s offer, I will manage my own concerns easily enough.”

Dorian still found the appearance of the elf entirely too convenient. Felt it somewhat suspicious, how well-timed and well suited he was to meet Fitzwilliam’s needs. It was obvious that with some knowledge of Fitzwilliam’s plans the elf was clever... dangerous. Still, the constant knot of concern – born from the thought of Fitzwilliam out there alone when before he consistently had a team at his back – eased some. The elf could at least be genuine in the desire to work together, and while Dorian couldn’t be there, someone else – someone obviously skilled and knowledgeable in ways Fitzwilliam was not yet – would be there ensuring Fitzwilliam wasn’t alone.

“And he is most certainly your elf.” Dorian teased, pushing aside his concerns for now, in favor of hunting for that endearing flush. He tugged on Fitzwilliam’s hand, drawing him closer with a wicked grin. “Your elf with the captivating eyes and hair. The perfect form.”

Fitzwilliam allowed himself to be tugged forward, bending at the waist as he rolled his eyes. “Yes, clearly he hits upon all my weaknesses,” he said offhandedly. The pink reappeared flushing from chest to cheeks. “Do I know anyone else with captivating eyes? Maybe ones that seem to shift color? What about the hair? Anyone with gorgeous hair in my esteem at the moment? And perfect form? Well, I do seem to have that image of you after our first time, burned into my mind. Back to me, backlit by the large glass window.” He crept closer, so close Dorian could feel the breath on his face. “Even dust shimmering in the sun beams couldn’t distract me from your perfectly formed ass.”

“That is because you also have impeccable taste.” Playing dirty now was he? Trying to distract Dorian from his teasing and endeavoring to have him be flustered and blushing instead? Never let it be said Dorian didn’t rise to a challenge – and rise to a good many other things if Fitzwilliam contented himself on speaking the way he was. “With such a keen sense for a man’s finer qualities, I do have to wonder at the lack of details of said elf’s perfect form. No waxing poetical about _his_ perfectly formed arse? Of course, it is hard to stand up to such impressive competition as my own, I do understand.”

Fitzwilliam bit his lip, grinning wickedly. “It did look fantastic in those leather leggings,” he admitted. “But I don’t have enough data points to compare. Yet.”

“Why, Amatus,” Dorian demurred, smirk positively wicked and hovering just out of reach from Fitzwilliam’s own. “Are you trying to get us both into your bed? For the sake of comparison?”

Fitz barked a short laugh. “Now that’s an ambitious and worthwhile pursuit,” he agreed. “But for now, I suppose you’ll suffice.” He drew closer, nearly there, lips brushing against Dorian’s own as he spoke, voice low and rough.

“As consolation prizes go, I do certainly exceed expectations.” Dorian huffed out a laugh, a delicious shiver skating down his spine at Fitzwilliam’s barely there kiss, the low gravel of his tone. Oh but to have the time to indulge…

“If you keep looking at me like that, Fitzwilliam,” Dorian chased those lips, stealing a brief kiss, “we will be more than fashionably late for previously planned events.”

Fitzwilliam threw himself back onto the bed with a loud groan. His arm fell over his eyes. “Oh Dorian,” he whinged. “I’ve had such a night. Can’t we just stay here?”

“Not if you want to keep your grand plan on schedule,” Dorian said, standing and stretching his arms over his head. “Also, there is Mater to consider. She promised to introduce you to several members of the Senate.”

He didn’t _need_ to finish with the threat of her ire. It hung in the air between them, as clearly understood as if he had written in on a chalk slate. Fitzwilliam was already moving, standing to get ready. “Fine,” he huffed petulantly. “But I’m wearing what I want.” He stomped his foot. It was adorable. Probably _not_ the intended effect.

“Is what you want to wear what I have already laid out for you so you don’t have to think about it?” Dorian asked, smiling.

Fitzwilliam glowered at him but sighed after a moment, “Yes.”

“Good, step to.” Dorian moved to the dressing room, pulling out his ensemble as Fitzwilliam disrobed. Maker, but talk about perfectly formed arses…

“I can feel you ogling me, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam drawled. It seemed he was still put-out over being rebuffed earlier.

“Best get used to it, Amatus,” he replied as he buttoned an asymmetrical vest. “I’ll be admiring you all evening.”

“I hate these things,” the Inquisitor grumbled, pulling on his own vest.

Dorian smiled a little. “Then you are _really_ going to hate the event at the end of the week. It’s a masquerade.”

Fitzwilliam wheeled around, vest flapping flaccidly, not yet buttoned. “What?” he asked with alarmed, wide eyes. “A what? With the costumes and the dancing?”

“The very same,” Dorian smirked. “Don’t worry, I have everything all planned out. All you need do is show up and be your usual charming self.”

“Usual vapid, brainless arm-sweet,” he growled as he pushed buttons through holes with fierce fingers.

He did feel poorly about how hard that mask in particular was for Fitzwilliam to put on. All his beautiful cleverness locked away behind glassy, dim eyes. He felt like a doll on strings. Not _his_ Fitzwilliam at all. He approached, brushing the rogue’s hands away and closing the vest with sure fingers.

“Perhaps we can find another quiet nook,” he purred, looking down at Fitzwilliam with hooded eyes. “It went so well last time.” He felt Fitz shudder with the words, warmth spreading through the Lenen'hima'sa and radiating to his fingers and toes. Fitzwilliam’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “Is that enough to get you to attend, do you think?”

A slow nod and lust-blown pupils were all the response his lover managed. “Good,” he purred, dropping his head and claiming Fitzwilliam’s lips in a heated kiss that had them breathless and clutching at one another as desperation flooded them both.

A knock echoed in the chamber outside their room and Dorian broke the kiss reluctantly. “Vishante kaffas!” he shouted, whipping his head around to look at the door, hands still unwilling to let go of Fitzwilliam’s flushed, hot skin. “What?”

“Are you ready yet?” his mother called. Her voice echoed hollowly betraying her position by the door of the outer chamber. Nowhere near the bedroom then. Thank the Maker for tiny miracles. “I’m not going to be late just because you’re snogging the Inquisitor!”

He felt Fitzwilliam start at her words, his head whipping around the room, searching for spies in the drapery, no doubt. “We’ll be right there,” Dorian called back. He waited for the empty thunk of the heavy door swinging closed before he returned his attention to Fitzwilliam.

“How did she _know_ ,” he asked, eyes wide and awed.

Dorian laughed. “She didn’t. It was a lucky guess.” He dropped another kiss on Fitz’s pink and swollen lips, tongue snaking out despite himself to taste the sweetness he longed for. Fitzwilliam was so amenable to it, so eager, that pulling away again felt an exercise in self-control fit for his early training as a mage. “Best get your sandals on,” he whispered, pressing their foreheads together, unwilling to separate. “It’s going to be very hot tonight.”

Fitzwilliam backed away with an audible groan and sat on a bench to do just that. “I’ll say,” he grumbled. His eyes looked Dorian up and down with a languid heat that he could _almost_ feel on his skin. But soon Fitzwilliam was attired and they were leaving the easy comfort of their quarters to socialize with the upper crust.

This whole “redemption” plot of his was doing a number on his love life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I write the most personal Author’s Note of my life:
> 
> The last few months have been pretty disastrous. Relationships ended… badly. I lost my job and through that lost the little boy I had spent so much time with every week of his life from 3 months old to 4 years and change. I didn’t handle it well. Financial troubles compounded things and I couldn’t deal any longer. Depression and anxiety killed my ability to work on this story. Or anything, really. 
> 
> I love this series, this universe and these characters, so much and I was terrified to fail them. I would look at the doc for this chapter and feel the panic just flooding me. Crippling me.
> 
> I wish I could say it’s all been sorted. But many of those stresses are still around. I am still searching for a new, fill-in, job and studying, anxiously, for my certification exam so I can get paid to work in my field. And any number of other things. 
> 
> A huge thanks goes to the ladies in my writing group who, as they have repeatedly told me, had all the faith I would find my way back to this story. And they are just as excited as you are to see its return. 
> 
> But no matter what they say if it weren’t for Eclectify, my lovely dearest, I don’t know if I would have overcome the terror that kept me away for so long. She wrote with me, lent me her wisdom and compassion, and never once made me feel lazy. I think she’s been a beautiful addition to the series. So I would like you all to join me in welcoming her promotion from “editor” to “co-author.” Though, she’s really doing TWO jobs. Amazing woman that she is. 
> 
> We’re moving to an every other week posting schedule, in order to keep that particular stress somewhat tamed. An effort to see the writing as “fun” and not “work,” as I am fond of saying. 
> 
> So, all that said, consider this our official re-opening. I’m so happy to be sharing with you all one more.
> 
> ~Love!


	7. Chapter 7

Vel of house Vestinus was living downright meagerly by Vintish standards. Dorian had arrived to take a later dinner with him before talking business. It was one of his lover’s more clever ideas. Vel was new to the Senate, as was Dorian, and if Fitzwilliam’s intelligence could be relied upon, as he was sure it could, the young Magister and he had a great many philosophies in common. Still, House Vestinus was an old one and he’d been to the main manor many times in his life. It was a garish show of wealth, gems and precious metals decorating even the most mundane objects. He’d expected the same when he arrived at the north manor where Vel made his home, or would when he married. He’d been surprised the moment he walked in.

 

Where he had expected silks and gold and glittering stones he had found plain furnishings. Tasteful and well-appointed, to be sure, but plain – fine wood, engraved but not gilded. Wool hangings, beautiful and exotic, but hardly showy. Silver and crystal bowls, tumbler, and plates, but peppered in among many more simple wood and glass. And somehow they were made to look no less lovely for their simplicity. The woods were varied, dark or stripped or even natural purple-heart, but polished until they shone. It made an eclectic display but an effective one.

 

“I apologize for my home, Master Pavus,” Vel said with a small smile as they sat down to tea in the salon. “I imagine you’re used to something a bit more lavish.” He held the teacup delicately, steam curling from the beverage. A simple piece, glazed ceramic where his father would have presented gold-dipped porcelain.

 

Dorian smiled back, guardedly, as was always the case during these “business” meals. “I thought it quite lovely, actually,” he said sincerely. Not that he expected it to be received that way. Vel had been a bit cautious as they ate. His words were few and well-considered, he had nodded politely and given shallow compliments. He’d practically come off as bored. “You’ve a fine eye for the minimalist atheistic.”

 

His tea was also quite hot and he lifted it to his lips, blowing gently and sending small ripples across the surface. He waited for a snide remark to show he had taken offense but Vel just smiled a little, almost embarrassed thing and nodded his thanks. Maker, no wonder Fitzwilliam had directed him to this boy. He was far too genuine to make it in the senate. He virtually wore his heart on his sleeve.

 

And suddenly the entire lens through which he had viewed their dinner conversations focused. He wasn’t being dismissive, or acting bored. He’d felt awkward entertaining. Maybe even anxious about having Dorian, whose social standing was legendary if not always favored, in his home. Everything Dorian had thought part of a mask was _actually_ just stroppy Vel being who he was. It would make him easy to work with and trust, but his career in the magisterium would be uneventfully without making the proper friends.

 

“Well,” he said slowly. “Should we to business?”

 

Dorian nodded in reply, lowing his cup once more. It was still too hot to sip. “I have come to discover you and I have, shall we say, similar interests?” Vel looked a little unnerved by that.

“What’s that supposed to mean, exactly,” he replied slowly. His cup did not move, but Dorian saw a little tremor across the tea.

 

“I’m referring, of course, to your clean water bill,” he said grinning. “I voted in your favor, naturally, though I’d only had my seat for a short time. I thought it was brilliant.” A little flush of red crept up Vel’s cheeks at the compliment. “So after that I looked into your career and alliances. I found rather little, but it was enough to make me think we might have a few points of mutual interest.”

 

Vel still looked a bit anxious but now it was mixed with intrigue and pride. “Well,” he said slowly, “it would be a great honor to work with you.”

Dorian laughed heartily, startling the poor boy. “Do forgive me,” he chuckled. “But hearing me associated with honor is just too amusing. I might not be the pariah I once was, having snagged a favorable ‘match,’ but neither am I Tevinter’s golden child, the prodigal son returned. At best I am tolerated.”

 

Vel’s brow furrowed. “Well not to me,” he said with conviction. “I’ve been following you too,” the boy admitted. “Joining in on your talks at soirees, asking about which causes you favor, I even looked into your time with the Inquisition!” With each word Vel’s confidence and admiration grew more and more obvious. “So yes, I am honored to have you in my home.”

 

Dorian blinked, surprised. “Goodness,” he said after a moment, “so glowing a review.” A smile curled his lips, quirking his mustache up at the corner. “I suppose I have no reason to think an alliance out of the question then?” Vel shook his head, avoiding eye contact. “That makes things easier then. I can speak plainly. Though I am curious,” he said slowly, lifting his cup and blowing across the surface once more. “What made you look at me so closely?”

 

Vel looked down at his lap, fingers fidgeting on the handle of his cup. “I don’t really… fit in in my family,” he admitted. “My mater and pater are “traditional” to say the least. They aren’t the monsters some of the old families are. No blood sacrifices, always from willing participants, the slaves are treated well, they are charitable. But they tend to fall into the patterns of the old guard. Flaunting wealth, buying and selling slaves like they are… tools which become worn and useless with time. I’ve never held with their mindset. So it was –” he paused for a moment swallowing hard and forcing himself to look up at Dorian. Those eyes were heavy with emotion. “I have had many examples, Master Pavus, of what is expected when one does not fit in. Wear the mask, play the part.” Dorian felt his breath hitch at those words. Words so close to his own, words he felt like an old wound. “When I found someone who would not do what was expected, who was brave enough to stand and throw the mask away? Well, I was… inspired.”

 

Dorian’s smile was watery at best. “That was very kind, Vel,” Dorian said softly. “I thank you.” The boy’s face flushed but he smiled back. “You might as well call me Dorian,” he sighed blowing on his tea once more and testing it with a tiny sip that scalded his lips. “We’re friends now after all.”

 

Vel’s eyes dropped to his tea once more as he lifted a hand to the rim of the cup. “Well, friends can still do business,” he laughed gently. His gaze rose to Dorian’s as his fingers flicked idly over the top of his cup.

 

A gust of wind fluttered Dorian’s hair, making him start and blink. Vel’s eyes had gone wide with surprise before lowering to look at the hand which had summoned the magic. Dorian watched as his face took in the mess. Only half of the dark sweet tea remained in his cup, some hand been deposited into the saucer, and the rest had been strewn about the room from the carpet at his feet to the silk across Dorian’s shins. “I… am so _sorry_ ,” he whispered. “I-I don’t know what happened.”

 

Dorian hadn’t even noticed the two slaves in the far corner until he was looking for them. They stood there quietly, dressed well, but just as plainly as the décor in the north manor. Statue still until he waved them over. “The floor,” Dorian said to the first even while he waved the second to the tea service. They moved about, performing their tasks and just like that they vanished from notice once more.

 

“Don’t worry yourself, Vel,” Dorian chuckled. “You were quite worked up after all that praise. I’m sure it was nothing. And look, now your tea is cool enough to drink.” The smile was somewhat forced as were his comforting words. His mind was spinning. He’d heard rumors that other mages had been having trouble with their magic but he hadn’t seen it firsthand in anyone but himself. Now the proof was right before him. That Vel’s slip was a simple jump in power fluctuation said a great deal for the boy’s finesse with magic. Most of the stories he had heard ended with explosive results, or worse. He’d wondered if he was special in some way, or if his magic had been affected differently but now, with more data he was starting to form some theories.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Dorian said. He didn’t want to embarrass the boy, but more information was vital if he was going to figure this out. And he _was_ going to figure it out. “What does it feel like when you cast?”

 

Vel furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

 

He sipped his tea as Dorian tapped his finger to the side of his cup, considering how to phrase the question. “When you draw on your magic, do you feel like you’re trying to shove a square peg into a round hole?” He tilted his head. Not the best analogy, perhaps, but it would have to suffice. “Or do you feel like you’re… bringing a particularly stubborn horse to rein?”

 

Vel pursed his lips and looked up to the side, considering. “It depends upon the magic, I suppose,” he said at last. “I’ve always had a way with air and water and when I reach for them they do feel a bit like a coursing river. But not one I have to… change the path of. If that makes sense. More like one I need a boat to navigate.” He laughed a little awkwardly and sipped his tea. “Fire and earth magics? _Those_ have always felt like I needed to force them where I want them to go.”

 

Dorian pondered that silently for some time, drinking his tea and looking about the room, eyes neither falling nor resting on any particular thing. Ideas were forming. He’d been instructed in magic from his youth but now that he’d grown, researched ancient mages, learned how other nations and races viewed it, studied philosophies and histories, well now all those youthful teaching seemed to simple. If there was something wrong with magic why wasn’t it effecting everyone the same way? He was missing something. Something important. It tingled in the back of his head like and itch he couldn’t scratch. After long, long minutes of silence he spoke up.

 

“Vel,” he said and the boy turned his eyes to him. “Now that we’re friends I have a favor to ask of you.” The boy quirked a brow and looked a bit reserved, but he nodded. “Stick to air and water for a while.”

 

“What?” Vel asked, pulling a bit of a face. Maker, the boy would be so easy to clean out in a game of Wicked Grace. “Why would I do that?”

 

“I have a fledgling and very poorly formed theory about something. You are, of course, welcome to do as you please. But I would hate to know you were injured when I could have warned you. So, I have.” Dorian nodded respectfully and waited for the thanks that would really be a thinly veiled threat to what he was sure sounded like a thinly veiled threat.

 

“Alright,” the boy said, smiling. “I never liked the others much anyway. Let me know if anything changes though. I hate having the slaves do for me what I can do for myself.”

Dorian tried not to laugh. “And what would they do with all their free time?” he asked. “Learn to juggle?”

 

Vel shrugged. “I see no reason to drive them harder than needs be, is all.”

 

Dorian smiled back at him. “That’s very considerate of you. They’re lucky to be in your employ.”

More polite smiles, more drinking of tea, more small talk. That was the way of things. Mention you came for business, politely ignore that in favor of socializing and, when the warm beverages had been consumed, pour a drink and get down to it. So when he set his empty cup and saucer aside he was pleased to find a blue-glass tumbler of whiskey already in his hand. He would give the Vestinus slaves this: they were attentive.

 

He sipped, feeling the warmth spread down his throat and through his chest. “I see your frugality does not extend to your liquor,” Dorian grinned. “This is quite good.”

Vel laughed into his own glass, it echoed back at him. “I save the good stuff for company,” the boy joked throwing him a wink.

 

“A point in your favor,” Dorian replied. He took another sip, savoring the smoky swish of the amber on his tongue. “Well,” he sighed, “let’s get down to it.” Vel nodded, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his knees. “I am drafting a bill, with the support of my family and several key players in the senate. It’s a bit controversial, so you understand I must ask you to keep it absolutely quiet. It—” Vel held up a hand, cutting him off.

He turned to the back of the room and waved, dismissing slaves who bowed and left on quiet feet. Again Dorian was surprised to see them there. The room had felt empty but for the two mages. “Best not to have more ears in the room,” Vel said, returning to face forward. He waved for Dorian to continue.

 

“A good point,” Dorian acquiesced. “As I was saying, the bill is with regard to slavery in Tevinter. It is my intent to set into place standards of treatment for them.” He watched with some small pleasure as Vel’s jaw dropped open and then with more as he lifted the blue tumbler to his lips, threw his head back, and drained its contents. His head hung, eyes fixed on the floor.

 

“They said you were mad,” he said slowly, turning the glass in his hands. “They said centuries of selective breeding had turned the heir of house Pavus witless. I never believed them until right now.” He looked up then, grinning like anything. “Dorian Pavus is out of his mind. You’d have to be to think you could pull something like this off,” he laughed. Dorian stared. Maker, but… Vel was _delighted_. He wasn’t mocking him at all. He was energized, enthusiastic, enraptured. “Well then,” he laughed again. “You’d better tell me your plan. You have a plan don’t you? Something properly impossible?”

 

Dorian couldn’t help but grin back, Vel’s attitude infecting him completely. “I do have a plan,” he said, chuckling a bit under his breath. “And it is a very good plan. Nothing is impossible when you have a planner as good as mine.” He tapped his finger to the side of his nose, a gesture which said “trust me” and “I have secrets” all at once.

 

Vel leaned farther forward, absolutely intrigued by Dorian’s words and he couldn’t help but smirk. He sipped his whiskey to hide the brunt of it. Feeling rather good about The Plan as it now stood. Fitzwilliam’s information had been sound, Vel’s accommodations and treatment of his staff spoke of who he was in a way that his social presence could not. There was sympathy from him for that. Dorian well knew how to play a part. But for now, they could be as they were. Allies learning new roles.

 

This fish was caught. Now it was just a matter of teaching him how to swim.

 

***

 

Neela pulled her shawl about her shoulders tightly, but was sure not to cover her neck. The silver collar she wore there was the only thing keeping her from being considered a run-away. With it on display she was just another slave out on business for her master. Without it she could be struck down without thought. Oh, sure, if they killed her and saw it later they’d have to make reparations for her death, but that didn’t do much for her.

 

Her feet, bare on the cold cobbles padded swiftly. Longing for the chance to run. The great towering walls of Minrathous made poor substitutes for the trees of the forest, but she hadn’t been able to run in so long. Not with the joy and speed she craved. Not since she was a child. An elf running down the street must have done something wrong. She could just be in a hurry to complete an errand, but it was still more likely that she would get stopped and questioned than anything. So she walked briskly thankful that she had been put in Master Vestinus’ home.

 

Would she rather be in the forest? With her Mamae and clan? Of course she would. But Master Vestinus never hit any of them, never asked for them to bleed for his magic, never _touched_ any of them with lecherous fingers. The work was hard, but honest. They never wanted for food or sleep. They had their own time, once work was done, to study or craft. Master Vestinus did not ask questions as long as they returned in time to do their duties. The only thing they didn’t have was freedom. One thing made such a huge difference.

 

She sighed softly and turned the corner to wait at the place he would appear. It was not always the same place, but it was the one they used the most often these days. Two previous locales had been, what had he said, “compromised?” Such a big word to say something as simple as “found.” She smiled. It was small thing, hardly a quirk of her lips, but it was something. These meetings gave her hope, even if it was only a glimmer, that this would not always be the way of things.

 

She pulled the shawl more tightly and slipped into a shadow, out of sight, to wait.

 

He leapt down from the rooftop, careful to make just enough noise to not startle her but silent enough not to give either of them away. He, at least, could run if necessity called for it. She could not. She already took such a risk to meet him out here, despite her master being “one of the better ones” and he knew that. Always taking such care to make certain she could return safely after their meetings. A consideration given freely and it earned her gratitude more than any assurance his words may offer.

 

“Neela.” He smiled, pulling back his hood just enough to allow her more than the shadowed view of his lips offered to everyone else. “Are you well?”

She ducked her head in a small bow. “I am well,” she said. That smile crept in once more, pale reflection that it was, as she spotted parts of his Vallaslin peeking out from under that dark hood. It is good to see you again, “Galanadahl.”

 

The flicker of a smile, a flash there and gone but more than most were allowed to see. Always showing such delight in hearing her speak their language, ever if she knew she could no longer speak it without the Tevene inflection colouring her pronunciation. When she first heard him speak, the burr of his voice rolling the Elvhen so smoothly from his tongue all at once she felt a longing for the home she’d been stolen from so potent tears sprang to her eyes. She remembers his smile that day, sad and sweet as he wiped the tears from her eyes. He’d not spoken it since, save for the odd word here and there peppered into their brief conversations. Neela wondered if he knew how grateful she was for those few words and for his understanding in speaking no more than that.

 

“I’m glad to hear it.” He dipped his chin, leaning close enough to keep their voices to a whisper. “You had no troubles slipping away? I’ve been asking it of you more often that normal, I’m sorry.”

“It’s a small enough sacrifice,” Neela smiled, ducking her head. “I finish my work, I take a walk. As long as I have this,” she gestured to the silver band about her neck, “I am as safe as I can be.” Her fingers fisted in the shawl, betraying her. It was true enough but in this place “as safe as I can be” wasn’t the same as “safe,” and she knew he knew that. He was clever. Observant. Not once had she walked away feeling like she had gotten the better of an exchange. “The work is worth the risk,” she said confidently, knowing he would call her on her anxiety either way.

 

Kind Master or no, she still jumped slightly when his hands gently tugged her fingers free from her shawl, gathering them in his own and squeezing gently. That sad smile again, soft on lips she thought were suited much more to playful smirking and even rarer shows of genuine delight. His smiles never made her feel pitied and for that, she was eternally grateful.

 

“Don’t belittle what it means to do what you do for me, Da’lath’in.” Another brief squeeze and he released her hands. “I won’t keep you. The longer you’re here, the greater the danger. What do you bring me?”

 

He was so considerate. Kind. But there was a darkness behind his eyes. There had to be to do what he did. “Pavus came for dinner. During the meal they didn’t say much,” she said. They never did, some kind of shemlen etiquette, she supposed. “But in the salon they talked more intimately. Pavus complimented the…” she cleared her throat. “Décor.” Emboldened by Galanadahl’s presence she rolled her eyes and gestured to herself.

 

Within the shadows of his gaze a fire lit at her words, that spark of fury she knew drew people to him. Had drawn her. Anger for them, for what they suffered - some more than others, yes but he saw them all. Cared for them all.

 

Her lips twitched at the stream of vitriolic Elvhen that tumbled from his mouth. Curses she’d not heard in an age spoken with a passionate vehemence she could not help the want to smile at. He caught the flicker of it, a wry smile answering her own as he fell silent. Galanadahl took a deep breath, the rage cooling in his eyes before he spoke again.

 

“And after proving himself to be a complete arse, what else did Pavus have to say?”

“He wasn’t unkind,” she said, smirking, unable to chase the amusement from her lips. “Just… dismissive. After that they talked a bit about magic. Master Vestinus had another hiccup with his magic, spilled his tea and Pavus flagged us over to do clean up. Then they talked about that for a while. I don’t know much about magic.”

 

“Can you remember any specifics, Neela?” She could tell the mention of another magical hiccup had piqued his interest. “It’s okay if you cannot understand what they spoke of but if you can recall the words themselves, I’d be very grateful.”

 

She paused, screwing up her face in concentration as she had since she was young. She’d tried to break the habit many times, but some stains never washed away no matter how hard you scrubbed. It hadn’t been that long ago, she should be able to remember most of it. “Pavus asked how magic felt to Master Vestinus when he cast. Something about square pegs and round holes and rivers and horses and boats?” She shook her head. “Nonsense. Pavus asked Master Vestinus to only use his easy magic for a while. Said it was a warning.”

 

The quirk of an eyebrow and the slow, smile curling his lips gave her a brief flash of satisfaction. Her information was well received, it seemed. Even if it made little sense to her own ears. Her hands were lifted and clasped between his own again, Galanadahl even darting in to press his smile against her cheek in the briefest of kisses,. “That was incredibly useful, Neela. Thank you.”

 

She felt a little rush of pride and a bit of longing at so intimate an interaction with one of her own. “Th-they asked us to leave after that. They were about to discuss politics. I was already outside the room when they started, but I thought I heard Pavus say something about a bill about slaving. But I couldn’t dawdle near the door and attract attention. So that’s all I have for you this night, I’m afraid.” She smiled, feeling the warmth of those lips on her cheek. The tingle of embraces that made her think of home.  For once, in a way that didn’t make her feel alone, but instead connected her.

 

“You have offered me more than enough information, Neela.” Such a warm smile. The kindness it seemed, only the slaves of Minrathos saw. “Let me offer some of my own in return. Athras is well and sends his love. His Mistress has sent him to serve in their summer manor in their absence with little to no supervision. He is safe.”

 

Every time he tells her of her brother her heart leaps and ceases all at once. This time was no different. She felt so grateful to have a means by which to communicate, to know he is well. But a part of her always expects Galanadahl’s news to be greifsome. When it is not, when she knew Athras was alive, and unharmed, that he will be away but still knowing when he will be back… she felt warm. It is _almost_ like a letter from him. Something forbidden but desperately needed. “Thank you, Galanadahl,” she whispered, smile bright even if her eyes were watery, and pressed her own kiss to his cheek.

 

“I wish I could offer you more.” He murmured and she could hear the bitter sadness in his voice, the bite of anger. A brief touch to his cheek, the warmth of her small hand was all she could offer but she gave it gladly. She felt the muscles in his cheek shift under her palm with his slight smile. “You should go now, Da’lath’in. While you’re still invisible to prying eyes.”

 

A reluctant quirk of her lips, followed by a nod and she was pulling away. “You’ll let me know when you want to meet again,” she said. It was not a question, nor was it a command. She waited for the bob of his head in answer and then she turned, wrapping the shawl tightly once more. The moment he was out of sight she felt the chill creep back in. She stole back to the North Manor with all the fleetness she could muster without drawing attention. Still warmed by his word, with thoughts of her brother, with hope that was all too short-lived, the journey felt almost like a run through the wood. Almost.

 

***

 

Back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles, Feladara kept a keen eye on Neela’s retreating form. Content at least, in the knowledge that Neela left with a smile, word of her brother’s continued safety the only way Feladara could show gratitude for all she did for him. For the danger she constantly put herself in by spying on Vestinus and on his guests at Feladara’s request. After all, what use to her was coin too readily confiscated, used to give reason for beatings or so much worse. He could not yet see her free but he could give her something to hold hope for. It that was word from her brother, he’d gladly offer it.

 

Neela turned a corner and slipped away, Feladara flicking his gaze over the street and it’s inhabitants. She’d drawn no attention, no curious eyes for the slave going about her Master’s business – invisible until some piece of filth decided otherwise. For once, Feladara felt a stirring of gratitude for that invisibility. For the gazes that slid past Neela and deemed her unimportant. If only to provide the safety she needed to return to her Master’s Household after Feladara kept asking so much of her to provide him with the information he needed.

 

Master. The word tasted bitter on his tongue every time he used it. Even with Neela’s constant reminders that Magister Vestinus treated his slaves with uncommon kindness, to have decency be considered a kindness rather than a right set his blood to boiling. He’d heard a farmer in Ferelden speak of a man’s treatment of his horse the same way most spoke of the ‘good’ Masters in Tevinter.  Fed him the sweetest of hay, even the odd apple. Never expected him to carry more weight than he could handle. Only gave him a firm hand when necessity called for it but never struck out of anger.

 

Feladara could feel the bite of his nails into the flesh of his palm, fists clenched in anger. He loosened his grip, flexed the ache from his fingers and sighed. Neela’s information had proven interesting. Feladara guessed at Pavus’ plans to visit the younger Vestinus to seek an alliance, possibly to praise a bill that was more than controversial in the Senate. With Neela shedding more light on the problems with Vestinus’ magic occurring more often and now, Pavus’ warning, it lent credence to Feladara’s suspicions Pavus knew more of what plagued Tevinter’s mages than he was letting on. Given his closer proximity to the Inquisitor and the Mark, it wasn’t unlikely he _did_ have insight everyone else lacked.

 

It looked like Feladara needed to attend some more parties. Mages so used to relying on their magic for even the most mundane of tasks could not keep their fears secret entirely. Social events, the kind the elite of Tevinter thrived upon being seen at, brought with them more than just an abundance of wine and wealth. Flashy displays of magic, a flex of power both the physical and the proverbial were the norm. Not to mention whispers of those whose power was lacking or perhaps out of control.

 

There was more information to gain and Feladara need only to listen in during the right conversations to gather it. Some time spent in proximity to Pavus and his Inquisitor would not go astray either. The Mark, despite constant concealment in Trevelyan’s many varieties of expensive gloves, could not disguise its effect on the affluence of magic in Tevinter. Feladara might not know exactly what it was he was looking for, but he’d know it when he saw it. He suspected the days grew short when a glove was all that was needed to hide the sickly, green spider’s web branching its way across the Inquisitor’s palm.

 

He pushed away from the wall, leaving the welcoming embrace of the shadows and tugging his hood low over his face once again. Parties, as important as they were, could wait for now. He had word of a slave shipment arriving at the end of the week and had groundwork he needed to lay before the ship arrived.

 

A flicker of a smile curled his lips. It might be just the kind of mission to bring Ataashi along on for the first time. After all, there were certain observations of the newest Assassin in Minrathous that needed to be made as well. Feladara would extend an invitation and set that particular plan in motion - put Ataashi through his paces, study his reactions, assess his skills. He leapt at the brick facture of the alley wall, deft fingers finding handholds and bare feet sending him up and onto the rooftops with ease.

 

A trip to the guild was in order. He had a baby dragon to train.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did it, I brought Vel back. I couldn't help it:) I just love my side characters. 
> 
> And we got a glimpse of Feladara's network and headspace, thanks to Eclectify's beautiful writing. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed -- we certainly enjoyed writing it. Leave a comment if the urge strikes you. 
> 
> Next chapter: How to Train Your Fitzwill... uh, I mean Dragon!  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

The missive had come several days earlier, nestled into the dead drop with his other contracts. This one, however, was not in his contact’s lettering as the others had been. Written, instead, in a hand that seemed to be deliberately neutral. Neat, all capital letters, uniform in size and spacing gave little away.

 _COME PLAY, DRAGON. THIRTEENTH POLE._  

And so there he stood at the thirteenth light pole, just as before. Waiting. Glancing down over the sea damp timber and up towards the lampposts and their mage-fire glows. Magic used in excess, magic put to clever purpose - Ataashi supposed it all depended on whose opinion you sought. The elf, he decided, would lean toward the former. Opinion delivered with a roll of those oh so distracting eyes and some clever quip from his smirking lips. Or would he lean forward, all passion and righteous fury and fire each word like an arrow shot deadly from a bow. Ataashi grinned, a flash of white teeth from the confines of his hood. He could honestly say visualising the prospect of both made idle time waiting far more pleasurable. 

How long he waited, he couldn’t guess at, distracted some by his own idle musings. He almost didn’t recognise the elf until he was a few lampposts from the thirteenth, if not for the flash of lamplight on that brilliant russet hair. Hood pulled back, Ataashi could see the curve of a smirk, the mischief dancing clearer still in his eyes as the elf walked - all cock and swagger - down the boardwalk to meet him. Was it a display intended to prove trust? Allude to a want for true partnership? Something told Ataashi it was too cleverly crafted, all smiles while a dagger hovered waiting at his flank. Feladara was dangerous, make no mistake of it. To be lured in by the pretence of friendship was more than folly. His own misgivings and the memory of Dorian’s concern enough not to be taken in by the sway of a red braid and the wicked promise in expressive eyes.

“You do realise that offer could have easily been a trap.” Feladara greeted him with a quirked eyebrow. “I gave you very little to go on. Anyone playing at being me could lure you out. Towards grounds you obviously don’t favour.”

“You’re right.” Ataashi smirked. “But I’d have greater things to be concerned over if someone knew of our previous meeting well enough to lead me here. A trap is one thing. Someone having knowledge enough on you to know your movements, do a decent enough job mimicking you in two brief sentences? I’d be far more concerned with that than walking into a trap.”

The elf’s smirk shifted - something resembling honest delight tugging the corners of that crooked smile. There and gone in a flash. Ataashi could’t help the swell of pride at having been the cause of it.

“Clever.” Feladara eyes twinkled and he turned with no further word, braid whipping out like the tails of a banner - drawing Ataashi’s gaze just as effectively as any lord’s standard could.  Distracted by the sway of it, he almost missed the elf’s words, called over his shoulder with clear amusement. “Well, since you’re all dressed up for the occasion, care for an evening stroll?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer and Ataashi had to leap into action to catch him as Feladara sprinted off down the docks towards the boatsheds and warehouses ringing the water’s edge. Longer legs mean a longer stride and he ate away at the short head start the elf had with relative ease, despite the sheer speed in which Feladara moved. He matched pace, settling in at the other assassin’s side as he headed straight for the side of the nearest building. Feladara didn’t slow, meeting the wooden wall at speed and flying up its side with a grace that Ataashi couldn’t help but envy. Feladara paused at the top, bare toes curling over the edge as he sat back on his heels to look down at Ataashi with that flicker of smile in his eyes.

“Do you need a hand up?”

“I think I can manage.” Ataashi rolled his eyes, tone desert dry. He followed with little trouble, efficiently finding handholds and footholds and pulled himself up onto the dockside gambrel where the elf waited. “We’re running the rooftops then?”

“For the moment.” Feladara nodded. “I’ll even slow down for you so you don’t have to struggle to keep up.”

“Oh don’t trouble yourself on my account.” Ataashi grinned, sweeping his arm out in a mocking bow. “After you, Ser Elf.”

Feladara laughed, a bright burst of sound and then they were off. Racing over the roof tiles of Minrathos at a pace hardly allowing for Ataashi to catch a breath let alone hold a conversation. It was a mad dash, something wild and seemingly directionless, completely at the whim of the tiny elf leading them on this merry chase. The wind whipped his hood back, pinking his cheeks and sending his once groomed hair into mad disarray. He could only imagine the look on Dorian’s face when he returned, looking for all the world like he’d tumbled someone into bed rather than raced across the city after a fellow assassin. Given the teasing from nights previous and the playful hum of Dorian’s amusement through the bond, Ataashi’s Inquisitorial counterpart was in for a great deal more before the night was through.

Distracted slightly by the emotions he could feel originating somewhere north of where they ran, Ataashi needed to pause to regain his footing as a patch of straw - a bird’s nest - sent his feet skittering unsteadily beneath him. He looked around from his perch atop a roof that was practically falling in, the docks long ago left behind and Feladara watching him from a nearby rooftop. Waiting.

He’d obviously lost track of just where they were several rooftops ago. Somewhere west of the docks, somewhere south of the upper ring, Ataashi glanced about for some sign of where Feladara was leading them. Nothing familiar save for the rising spires of the taller buildings to the north and when Feladara took off again with a flash of teeth and a wink, Ataashi had no choice but to simply follow.

The elf knew these rooftops far better and from up here, somewhere above the streets he was used to walking, everything looked markedly different. He’d find his bearings soon enough but the idea of so easily losing his way was….unnerving. Still he followed after the sway of a red braid - snapping like a flag and challenging him to lay chase.  Feladara flew over the rooftops, running and jumping over eaves, swinging from posts and awnings. Ataashi seemed downright ungainly by comparison. The way Feladara moved was, well, it was like a dance.

His...preoccupation was hardly his fault. The way his eyes were drawn back towards the elf as he ran was entirely involuntary.  In the dimness of the evening light Feladara’s clothing made him look like nothing so much as a dark, naked shadow. Every inch of skin plastered snuggly with black fabric worn into dark patches of varying depth which, though it clearly did not restrict his movement, left very little to the imagination. And Ataashi’s mind was more imaginative than most. It might have been that imagination playing tricks, but Ataashi could have sworn the elf stuck each landing with a grace and form which deliberately showed off his finer qualities. The barest kiss of bare feet on the terracotta tiles, the bunch of lithe muscle as he leapt free from one rooftop to land in a smooth crouch on another. The sway of coat tails giving teasing glimpses at the swell of that leather-clad arse as he straightened to run once more. Ataashi cursed as he stumbled, loose shingles sliding beneath his feet. He righted himself easily enough, but not before drawing the attention of the elf.

Feladara looked behind, a fleeting moment apparently all he needed to take in the situation, before tossing an amused comment back over his shoulder. “Try and keep up, Da’isenatha,” he shouted, every ounce of amusement clear in his tone, even if his face had been quickly obscured again. Ataashi found himself glad he trailed behind, the distance enabling him to disguise the hint of his blush creeping up from neck to nose -- and to hide his scowl. He knew what that word meant – “little dragon.” A child’s nickname. A mocking endearment for someone clearly Feladara’s elder.

Or, at least it should have been. But the quip was delivered with such playfulness, something so like regard that Ataashi could not find the ire he ought to have felt. “I _am_ trying,” he retorted. “It’s just that it is a very lovely evening and I am taking in the … scenery.”

Before him Feladara paused atop a balcony railing, turning on the ball of his foot with an ease coming only of years of practice. The elf folded his arms, making quite the show of dipping his gaze to run the length of Ataashi from head to toe. He felt the touch of it on his skin like a concentrated beam of fire, warming him from the soles of his carefully worn boots to the tips of hair ruffled by their run.

A slow smirk pulled Feladara’s lips up at the corner. “I’m enjoying it myself. There is something very… Marcher about it this evening.” And with that he was spinning about, landing a roof below with the barest kiss of feet on shingles, before he was in motion. Rushing off once more.

Ataashi ducked his head, face hot from feeling the full weight of that gaze, though the elf had already sped off. Obscuring his blush from view was reflexive, but pointless. “Marcher?” he muttered to himself, already sprinting off in an attempt to catch up. Before him, as he pondered, Feladara’s svelte form rippled with the shift of muscles beneath cloth. He hadn’t noticed anything about the evening which reminded him of home. The hot sea air didn’t really strike him as reminiscent of the crisp early-fall smell of the Free Marches. The sunsets at home were never as wide and long as they were in Tevinter, always obscured by forests and mountains. When he realized what the elf was actuallysaying he lost his footing again. This time he caught himself with fingers curled over the rim of a jutting a stove-pipe.

 _He_ was what was Marchian. Feladara had winked at his knowledge of having placed Ataashi with a flirtatious throwaway. _I am in so much trouble_ , Fitzwilliam thought, pulling himself upright again.

He sighed heavily, and sped on, attempting to make up the distance lost and hoping not to lose the fleet-footed elf. Dorian came to the front of his thoughts, not for the first time. The mage was deeply suspicious of “Ataashi’s” new connection and now, with the realization that the elf had placed his homeland, Ataashi was more inclined to share that suspicion than ever before. It was caution more than anything. They had been so careful to make sure Ataashi and Fitzwilliam could not be connected, but if the elf had made these leaps it was only a matter of time before he’d have to outright lie or deceive him to keep his secret.

 _Well,_ he thought, admiring the fine backside before him once more, as it dipped down in preparation for a lunge across roof-gaps, _at least we know one thing – the spy is good at what he does_.

 

******

 

Feladara chuckled to himself as he led them away from the docks, keeping a close eye on his new companion’s progress as they ran. Baby dragon lacked a certain amount of grace necessary for mad dashes across rooftops and while Feladara did attribute a portion of that to his heavier bulk, well...he smirked to himself. If Ataashi spent less time watching certain parts of Feladara - that while very well formed were not the intended target for the evening - he’d spend less time slipping on loose shingles. Still, a lot could be garnered from watching Ataashi watching him. What drew his eye, what drew his focus, what broke his concentration. Everything useful and Feladara filed each new snippet of information away as quickly as he received it. Tidbits and half-formed thoughts all labelled “Ataashi” and stored away for later when he could kick back, alone with a truly horrible mug of ale, and turn the events of their first night running the rooftops over in his head. Start to piece together a clearer image of just who Ataashi was and just what it was he could do. Until then, he could throw out the hook and wait for the fish to bite.

It hadn’t taken long for Ataashi to realise the meaning behind his comment, though longer than Feladara had hoped. Such a fumbling thing in many respects, like a young halla, all legs that lacked coordination and stumbling footsteps where grace would one day be. Oh, Feladara had seen the man fight - he had grace enough. More than enough. It just needed to be used for more than just clever plans and practiced movements.

With Ataashi distracted in the efforts to catch his footing, Feladara could make a show of running on ahead when instead, he chose to make use of Ataashi’s inattention. He leapt across another narrow alley, landing from the higher rooftop onto a lower one before springing backwards to the wall of the building he’d just leapt from. He waited a moment’s breath, listening for the heavier footsteps of his companion. They were softer than Feladara expected, hard to accomplish when clad in boots instead of bared feet. He was impressed. Ataashi knew something of stealth then - the previous display from days earlier not just the one trick the man knew. Granted there were no slavers or ship’s captains to announce himself to here but the soft, almost silent footfalls - while not possessing the advantages of a smaller frame and bare feet - were display of skill not to be sneered at.

Feladara listened as the footsteps drew closer, the soft slide of a boot coming to the edge of a rooftop. A pause and then the crunching of tile as a foot committed to a leap. Watching Ataashi sail overhead, Feladara’s lips twitched in a grin. The baby dragon blinked, taking a moment to look down at where he would land, and when he looked back up it was clear he had no idea where Feladara had gone. It was too late to stop his leap from the lower roof to pull himself up the next one, and once there he had too much momentum not to roll forward. A moment’s pause and Feladara fancied he saw cogs turning in Ataashi’s head. He seemed to stop his progress just long enough to plot and predict and then he was off again, leaving one very smug elf watching his retreating back.

When Ataashi had time to think, to plot and plan out his next move he made good decisions. Not great decisions when an element of - Feladara liked to consider it creativity - was required. He pulled up himself up to the edge of the roof before springing back over the alley and in the direction Ataashi had taken off in. The decision to follow Feladara’s likely direction was a sound one, especially considering doubling back wasn’t always an option when being pursued.

Feladara was quite used to being pursued.

The real question was how long could Ataashi continue on his path without realising Feladara now tracked his movements from behind. Almost too easy, how effortlessly he flanked the man. Feladara knew he’d have only one chance to surprise before that clever mind he’d already seen evidence of would come up with something to prevent the same happening again.

Ataashi couldn’t keep this up forever. Either he’d see some evidence of Feladara’s passing or he’d have to come up with a new plan. He hadn’t known their intended destination, after all, so he _was_ relying on Feladara to direct him. Matching pace enough to keep Ataashi in sight but remain hidden, he watched and waited for the next decision to be made.

Ataashi’s eyes flicked to the left, then the right and settled on the highest point at their current location. From there he could get a line on Feladara. It was just a few more leaps, rolls, and pulls from here - if Feladara let him reach that spire his advantage become moot. His advantageous position was on borrowed time, now that Ataashi could spend less time acting on instinct and more time formulating a plan of attack, Feladara needed to think on his feet. Experience did mean Feladara could outthink the man, but a far superior ability for strategy meant Ataashi had the greater advantage. Luckily, Feladara more than made up for that lack in other areas 

He knew these rooftops better, had run them for longer and could shadow Ataashi easy enough - even as he moved to higher ground. A waste of energy, to let the man climb any higher than necessary and their actual destination lay in a more north-westerly direction. Time to point the dragon in the right direction. Allowing Ataashi to come to a brief pause, Feladara dropped down silently behind him and coughed.

 

*******

 

“Where have you been leading us?” Ataashi jumped at the sound of that sudden and much too close voice, feet skittering under him as they tried to halt and continue on at the same time. He wobbled, a little less than gracefully, and spun to face Feladara. The elf made a show of looking out over the streets, feigned curiosity belied by the wickedness of his smirk. “It seems far less eventful than where I’d planned but I’m sure you have it all well in hand.”

“I… was…” he shook his head deciding against the confession and slid easily into wit. “I was headed to the bathhouse.”

“Tired already?” Feladara laughed, eyes dancing with that secretive sparkle, though his face remained an impressive mask showing only what he wished, Ataashi was sure. An exaggerated sigh of disappointment as he glanced down, examining his fingernails with a bored expression that had Ataashi feeling like he had let him down though it was clearly all a play. “And here I was hoping you had the stamina to go on...” he trailed off, lifting a suggestive eyebrow, “much longer.”

Ataashi felt a slight shiver at the implication of those words, unable to deny the spike of desire they drew. He could see Dorian behind his eyes, in the brief darkness which came with rapid, flustered blinks, smirking, poking fun at him for being “captivated” by his crush. Oh there would be absolutely no end to that teasing if he were proven right, Ataashi knew. Well. _Two can play at this game,_ the thought, lips pulling up in a wicked smile.

He took a breath and bit his lip, leering at Feladara and not bothering to hide the attraction he truly felt. He let his eyes fill with the heat of it, and then he locked them on the elf’s. “I was rather hoping you’d join me,” he drawled, words dripping from his lips in his best imitation of Dorian’s velvety tone. “But I suppose if you have your heart set on rough and tumble instead, I could be persuaded.”

“Such narrow minded thoughts.” The smirk Feladara freed was a mischievous thing, heat sparking in his own gaze in response to Ataashi’s open leering. Delight and obvious lust in equal measure as his voice rumbled from lips with wicked promise.  “Why settle for one or the other when you can have both. One after the other.”

He turned without waiting for Ataashi’s response, glancing over his shoulder and quirking an eyebrow upwards. “Coming?”

“Only if you’re very good,” Ataashi retorted before he truly realized what he was saying. He hoped the exertion of their rooftop run would disguise the flush that burned up his neck, brushing past the elf and took off in a direction that was a wild approximation of where he suspected Feladara was steering them.

The comment pulls a peal of delighted laughter from Feladara’s lips, obviously quite by surprise. He choked it off with a short snort, rolling his eyes and darting forward to match pace with Ataashi’s longer strides. His instincts at least, had served him well - Ataashi had led them in the correct direction even if he’d yet to work out their destination. Granted, Feladara hadn’t offered a good deal of information on their current objective something that prickled uncomfortably in the back of Ataashi’s mind if he was to be completely honest with himself. The elf offered little and expected much - at least save for the clear view of his uncovered face and the ease of their conversation the night they first met. Ataashi prided himself on his judge of character and while he remained cautious, even suspicious, of Feladara’s motives, he found he wanted to believe that show of trust was genuine.

“There’s a trafficking ring running out of a warehouse not far from here.” Their pace is fast but no longer enough to limit conversation. Feladara shifts his weight subtly and alters their course slightly as he speaks. Ataashi follows after a moment’s pause.

“Our destination, I’m assuming?” Ataashi curled his lips in disgust at the mention of traffickers, sneering at the thought of how easily they plied their trade in Tevinter. “And our target, I hope.”

Feladara grinned and there was nothing pleasant in the promise those curved lips made. “Correct. It’s run by a wealthy merchant making more coin on people than the ridiculous trinkets and silks these disgusting noble shemlen lust after. He has business dealings in Antiva and a steady supply of young children without the fortune…” he spits the word like acid from his tongue. “to find themselves in the Crows employ.”

“Slavers.” Ataashi doesn’t even bother trying to hold back the low rumble of a growl that issued from between bared teeth. “If it’s not the Crows then it’s these bastards preying upon the most vulnerable.”

Something flickered to life in Feladara’s gaze, hesitant and fleeting. It took a moment, but Ataashi realised it was the stirrings of respect he’d glimpsed. An almost blatant admiration that for once had little to with obvious mutual attraction. Feladara was impressed with his reaction, turning to regard him from more than just the corner of his eye as he slowed his pace further.

“You gave me a glimpse of it, Da’isenatha.” A curious quality to his voice, the elf tilted his head to the side in consideration. A few paces forward and still Ataashi couldn’t quite place the emotion colouring Feladara’s tone. “Before, on the docks when I handed you that slaver’s manifest.”

“A glimpse of what?”

“Your anger.” He gestured with the careless wave from a gloved hand. “I saw it when you looked down and realised what the ship held. You were furious.”

“You act like it should be surprising. Of course I was angry to see people traded like livestock,” Ataashi snapped, heat leaping into his voice.  “Slavery is a vile, disgusting practice. I hate it just as much as you do.”

“I’m starting to think you just might.” Feladara’s smile quirked crookedly on his lips. Ataashi couldn’t even call it a smile really and still his heart gave a odd leap at the sight, a hiccup that left him a little breathless. “You’re a curious one, Ataashi, I’ll give you that.”

“Says the elf naming himself after a plant.”

Feladara huffed out a laugh, that odd little smile disappearing and replaced by his ever present smirk. “I’ll ask you how you know what the Elvhen of my name means later.” He turned to face forward again, picking up his pace. “Once we’ve dashed slaver blood against the ground.”

“We’re headed away from the docks so our target isn’t another ship.”

“No. There is three...pens.” It was clear Feladara hated to even speak the word. “They’re all due for the sales later tomorrow. Elves. Children. The oldest has perhaps seen their 14th Nameday at most.”

Ataashi’s hands clenched into fists momentarily before he forced them back open, knowing they needed to be ready. “I take back what I said earlier,” he said, eyes narrowed and more focused than they had been all evening. He could feel the predatory cast of his words and knew his smile, all white sharpness, was likely just as hungry. “This will be much more enjoyable than the bathhouse.”

This. This is why Ataashi agreed upon an alliance with the elf, despite both Dorian’s and his own misgivings. Despite his and Dorian’s plans for the future of Tevinter, of the hours spent as vapid arm candy so Dorian could work the elite and turn the tide of approval. Despite nights spent arranging and dealing death to eliminate the worst kind of scum who held sway in the Magisterium. Despite it all, here and now, was the first time Ataashi felt like he could do something to help those who suffered the most without having to play the long game. A difference he could make, no matter how small, that he could actually see.

And even though he wore another name, he felt for the first time outside of the privacy of his and Dorian’s rooms, like himself again.

“So, my elvhen friend.” Ataashi smirked, every bit as hungry for blood as Feladara. “What is it you plan to do?”

 

*******

 

Feladara smirked, wild and furious as he glanced over at Ataashi and saw the reflection of his own bloodlust in the assassin’s eyes. How fortunate to find someone who loathed everything about this so-called “business practice” just as much as he did. He delighted in the appearance of such narrow focus, something foreboding and deadly in Ataashi's gaze previously absent. Feladara could recall that same look flaring to life before, Ataashi holding the shipping manifest and realising the cargo could only be soon-to-be slaves. No matter what else this man was, his hatred for slavers was true. Like called to like and Feladara knew a kindred spirit when he saw one. However complex that made the future, he couldn’t hide his delight in that discovery.

“The plan, is up to you.” He winked. “It is, after all, your specialty. I’ll provide the information where I can.”

“Oh, so I get to plan now?” Ataashi shot back and the wicked curve of that smile was enticing in a way Feladara enjoyed far too much. “Not just tossing me in and watching me flounder?” He watched as Ataashi considered for a moment, head tilted and that clever mind he’d only glimpsed at working away at the problem presented.

“The layout of the area would be helpful, but without sitting down and drawing it won’t be very clear.”

“You need to get more familiar with these streets, Da’isenatha.” Feladara rolled his eyes but kept an easy levity to his words. No need to get backs up. “Spend more time wandering the streets and less time disappearing when daylight calls.”

“Missing me already?” Suspicion colours the jest and Feladara files it away. More to examine later. “Tell me about the staff,” he asked. “How many? Ages, nationalities, skills and weapon predictions would be helpful. Are any of them professionals or are we looking mostly at mercenaries?” Ataashi continued rattling things off. “Do we know anything about the Businessman? Are the children of varying age or are they more likely to all have the same selling points? Will they be destined for similar occupations, or specialized ones? How many children? City or Dalish? How secure are the pens? Are they lax enough that the children might try to run when chaos ensues?” Finally, he stopped and allowed Feladara time to answer.

“Two men guarding each pen. Young, mercenaries mostly from Tevinter but two are from Antiva. The two from Antiva are rogues - bladed weapons such as yourself.” Feladara gestures to the fine daggers Ataashi used.  “The Vints are warriors. There’s at least one mage, though I’ve seen two there. More probably on hand if things head south quickly. Best to consider the possibility of at least two being there at the same time. The Children are...sorted. Each pen for a different intended...occupation. Household, Pleasure and...Assistant.”

Assistant meaning mage fodder, for ritual that went unspoken of but known. Catered for.

“There’s at least eight in each pen - 12 in the one destined for the brothels.” Feladara snarled, though his face remained as impassive as ever. “Primarily City elves from Antiva but there are three Dalish. I don’t recognise them personally but I suspect they’re from a clan that moves about near the border into Antiva from the Free Marches.”

Feladara took a breath. “As for the illustrious Businessman? No ties to anyone important through blood but well connected due to his...discerning eye for his ‘merchandise’ and his discretion. He’ll be missed only because the absence of the constant supply of slaves he provides. He won’t be there tonight. I plan to deal with him later.”

“Are you planning on extending me an invitation?”

“Perhaps.” Feladara found he quite liked the idea of that. Enjoyed the grin it brought to Ataashi’s lips. “When you don’t have your own contracts to attend to.”

“I’ll await your word with baited breath.” Ataashi snarked, Feladra smirking in response. “Tell me more about these pens.”

“The pens are too secure for the children to escape, even with a distraction giving them opportunity. But the locks are simple.”

“Good. If then pens are secure it means we don’t have to account for them getting caught in any crossfire. Though if there are mages there it would be best to pull the action as far from the pens as possible. And taking them out should be the first priority. The warriors will be easy enough. I can’t compete with their brute strength, but I’ve yet to meet one who did go down if you got a blade into his liver,” Ataashi chuckled a little. “I look forward to that moment. The one where the big bulky warriors with their halberds and longswords toppled like great trees struck by lightning.”

“The bigger they are and all that.” Feladara agreed, casting his eyes over in clear admiration of both his fellow rogue’s larger form and everything he’d detailed thus far. The way Ataashi took the slightest bit of information and weaved it into a solid plan was certainly something to see. The delight he took in it even more so. He leered openly, enjoying the slight pinking of Ataashi cheeks as he did so. And the heated look thrown his way in return.

“That leaves the rogues.” Ataashi continued, breaking their gaze and reaching back to tug a pouch free. “Shadow step can be annoying, but if we’re observant we’ll spot them anyway.” He tossed the pouch across to Feladara. “Ash,” he explained. “Hope you have something to cover your mouth and nose with.”

Feladara had never used Ash before, fond more of the flasks that blinded or smoke that lulled people into a dizzying stumble. One particular one released a cloud of potent toxin that poisoned almost instantly, something his well-designed hood kept him protected from. He pulled it up over his head now, hiding the brightness of his hair beneath the dark cloth and tucking his braid away to deny grasping hands an easy leash. The cloth at his throat, looking at first like part of his tunic, was instead a mask that fitted snugly over his mouth and nose. Cloth that had cost a fair amount of coin, spelled as it was to allow him to breath easily but filter out the more nastier of concoctions he both used and had used on him.

“I believe I can handle the two rogues on my own, if you’d like to start with warriors.” Feladara smirked, unsheathing his blades for a quick inspection before securing them again. “Shall I show you how it is done when you’re not announcing yourself to an entire dock yard?”

Ataashi fought a grin but Feladara spied it twitching at the corners of his lips, sparking in his eyes. “If there’s time to observe the area and pick our moment that would be ideal. Mages first if at all possible, then I’ll take the warriors, you take the rogues. I look forward to… learning how it’s done,” he finished with an appreciative glint and a smirk. Oh the things Feladara wanted to do with that mouth...

Feladara grinned, the flash of white teeth hidden by the dark mask over his mouth. Another advantage of covering his head and most of his face. He lifted one finger up to the approximation of where his mouth was, indicating silence before ghosting forward - feet the closest to absolute silence one elf could manage. He lead Ataashi the last few rooftops needed to bring them to the courtyard where the pens were. Where the Children were. Feladara snarled, the sound muffled by his mask, as he spied the desolate look on those children’s faces - some already bearing the marks of hands and magic on their flesh.

He felt the stillness fall over him, a quiet calm that came with taking the pure rage he felt and channelling it in a way that could stand for more than just vengeance. More than fury burning out of control. He wouldn’t need the ash until he reached ground level and with a mage lingering close to one of the pens where a rogue and warrior already waited, the first two kills and one serious injury would be easy. Surprise, Ataashi would learn, could be more effective than any well thought out plan.

“You take that mage.” He leaned close, almost breathing the words directly into Ataashi’s ear. “But wait until I use my own Ash. That will be your signal.”

And with that he dashed across the rooftop, bare feet silent as he moved. One leap and for a moment he was flying, the dark black of his clothes sweeping out like raven’s wings. He didn’t draw his daggers, instead pulling two throwing knives from his hip and sinking them both into the throats of first the Mage and the Rogue before he’d even landed. Daggers drawn in one swift motion he whirled in action, slicing both their necks while their eyes still bulged with surprise. Ducking low, he swept both double edged daggers in swift, cuts over the warrior’s chest as went to heave his battle axe into play. With one final motion he skidded low on his knees to hamstring the warrior and watched him topple - a wolf-like snarl on Feladara’s lips as he fell. Correction. The first _three_ kills.

He found the bag of ash and disappeared in a cloud of black.

 

******

 

Ataashi found himself blinking. It had all happened so _quickly_. And gracefully. Like… like time had slowed down for the elf and the rest of them, mere mortals, had been helpless to move. The way lithe muscle shifted and moved as legs crouched and prepared for the leap from the rooftop. _How did he pour himself into those leggings and can I be the one to help him out of them?_ He felt something suspiciously like laughter filter through the bond, Dorian’s wicked brand of mirth altogether just as distracting as the sight of Feladara moving like sin and shadow. He silently thanked the Maker when the ash puffed up in a dark cloud and he could go to work.

He pulled the cowl over his lower face and made his way into the ash, drawing blades and closing the distance between himself and the second mage as quickly as possible. He’d always had fairly good recall, so as long as the mage, a slender woman with an angry scar down her cheek, hadn’t moved he would find her… He favored precise strike, but in the din it was hard. He struck low, hoping, and succeeding, to stab down through the thigh. She dropped, a wild flare of fire shot out toward where he had been. Good, better into the ash than up like a flare.

He circled around back, preparing to land a killing strike when white hot iron stabbed at him. Too hot. Even with the wild fluctuation in magic lately it shouldn’t have been able to heat the steal of her blade that quickly. He dodged, mind spinning.

 _Andraste’s ass,_ he groaned inwardly. He crouched low, making sound as he moved one way, drawing her attention, before silently rolling the opposite way. _She’s a blood mage._ If he’d known that he would have made her the priority. _Aaaaand_ , he thought wildly as a fiery circle of rage-filled heat radiated out from her, warming the air and clearing the ash some, _she’s angry._

He threw his voice, calling out in a way he hoped would misdirect her focus. “Blood Mage!”

Of course there was a Blood Mage. Tevinter vomited Blood Mages up at every opportunity and it made for an interesting time when your primary means of dispensing with enemies involved a measure of bloodshed. Still, Feladara had measures in place for the appearance of Blood Mages and was practiced in using some...creative methods of neutralising them. What he wasn’t used to was using Ash to conceal his movements and position and it proved to be a slight hinderance to his practiced methods. But Feladara was nothing if not quick on his feet - both literally and figuratively.

He was impressed at the way Ataashi threw his voice, managing to pinpoint his direction only because he’d been careful to keep an awareness of his new partner lest they end up fumbling into each other. Always hard to work with someone you weren’t used to if you didn’t pay attention. He needed to get eyes on that Blood Mage - he had the means to take her out of action quickly if he could get a decent line of sight.

Feladara cast his gaze about quickly, dodging the brutal swing of a greatsword and leaping nimbly out of the way of the swift jab of the remaining rogue that endeavoured to flank him. Where was the damn Blood Mage...Ah! There.

Fortunately, the blood of the dead didn’t hold quite the same power of the living and Feladara always did his best to kill when dealing with mages - just in case. She was bleeding herself from the little he could see through the Ash, a wicked slash in her palm and on her leg. Pulling a healing flask from his pouch - a fast acting reagent a gifted healer had concocted for him - Feladara hurled it at the Blood Mage.

Ataashi moved again, just in time to hear the shattering glass and see the splash. The blood of her palm and knee vanished and a wry smile twisted his lips. That clever little elf. He’d hit her with a contact healing potion. A strong one too, to work that fast. He kept moving and thanked his lucky stars that he wasn’t bleeding or else she would be able to – a jut of pure flame shot directly at him.  

What in the void was _this_ now? There wasn’t enough blood to power that funnel of white-hot heat, not now that the others were dead and the mage’s wounds had been healed. He dodged, the spell still hot enough to scorch him, and heat his daggers. He dropped them and bit back a curse. None of this made sense. His mind was spinning with theories but he shut it down. He didn’t have time. He need to stop her before she rotated again and caught the pens in the crossfire.

He whistled, hoping to signal the elf. If they could flank her, draw her focus, no amount of magic fire would save her. Mages were just like anyone else. A sharp point in the right spot and they went down. He just needed someone to distract her.

Feladara was a little busy, dealing with the remaining rogue that danced with her blades just as fast as he did. She whipped around him, nimble on her toes as she did her utmost best to get behind him. Not particularly wanting to end the night with a blade in his back, Feladara mimicked her movements - dancing left when she did, sweeping right as she did. He couldn’t take his eyes from her for a second. When that whistle came, Feladara could have kissed the baby dragon in sheer relief, as the other rogue flicked her eyes towards the sound. It was all the opening Feladara needed, lashing out not with his blades but his foot. It connected with her cheek, snapping her head to the side and Feladara followed it up with a sharp upwards kick to her chin. She shook her head, dazed, before stumbling backwards. Feladara slit her throat and leapt over her falling corpse.

Two warriors and the blighted Blood Mage left. His new associate was doing his utmost to keep her flames away from the pens but those jets of flame were completely out of control. Where was she drawing her power from? Feladara needed to get to get this done and go help Ataashi. He needed that Warrior dealt with and fast. Right.

Leaping forward, Feladara sprung at the gigantic brute of a warrior looming down on him, leaping up and over the sweep on his axe to wrap his thighs around the man’s beefy neck. Using his momentum he twisted his hips to sweep the man off balance and topple him to the floor. He heard the warrior’s neck snap. He wasn’t getting up again. Feladara sprung back to his feet, sweeping up a palm full of gravel and hurling it at the the Blood Mage as she turned towards him. She recognised the new threat, seeing how effectively he could take down a man three times his size and preparing to send a spell to neutralise him. The gravel hit her in the face and she flailed at the sting of it. Just enough time for Ataashi to do something.

 _Well_ , Ataashi thought, eyes wide, _that’ll do it._ He didn’t waste time. Feladara’s distraction was effective, but it placed the pens too close to the mage’s area of effect for his comfort. He pulled at his sleeve, ripping a seam at his forearm and dug his fingers inside to release a sender skewer. He’d had Harrit craft these, extremely tough metal with no give despite how thinly it was hammered into the slim octagonal cylinder and Dagna had enchanted them. It was about the same length as his arm from elbow to wrist. It pulled free easily, slid into his hand, and then he drove it into the mage’s back, down into her shoulder.

She howled in pain and spun to face him. Fury pulled her features into a fierce, chilling grin and he watched that familiar expression of power and triumph cross her face as she called on her magic to burn him into slag.

Her palm thrust out, landing on his chest. A small curl of smoke rose from where she singed the suede of his vest. Her face dissolved into confusion and panic. He grinned, something white and sharp and predatory. She wasn’t even bleeding, he knew, and she wouldn’t as long as he left the skewer in. Not that it mattered overly much. Had there been other blood mages, the not bleeding would have been monument. But the very fine runes carved into the shaft would have rendered this mage useless even if the slit the wrist of every living person in Thedas.

He reached for his belt, pulling free one of the small throwing knives, and thrust it forward, hard. It had to be hard to break through her sternum. She was probably just caught up in all of this. She deserved death, but it would be a quick one. A small mercy he doubted she had time to appreciate. She looked down at the steel in her chest, back up at him, and then crumpled to the ground.

He would have taken time to appreciate the kill, it was a good one, but there were still at least two more targets to dispose of. He moved, trying to reposition himself in the image his mind held of their surroundings, listening and looking to place the remaining threats.

Well now, _that_ had been interesting. Whatever Ataashi had used to neutralise the blood mage’s magic Feladara was very interested in getting his hands on. Maybe he could sweet talk the other Assassin into sharing some of his own little tricks. But that was for another time and by his count they still had at least another warrior to deal with - a warrior who’d been suspiciously absent. That meant reinforcements and _that_ meant trouble.

“We’ve got incoming!” he shouted out to Ataashi, jerking his head upwards towards the roof. “Get back to the roof.”

They wouldn’t have the advantage of ash clouds this time and Feladara couldn’t use one of his toxin clouds due to the children. But there were a few more tricks he could try, if the reinforcements didn’t comprise of nothing but mages…

“Get to the back of the pens.” He told the children, relying on those who spoke Trade to pass the message onto the other children. To the Dalish, he said the same in Elvhen. “Cover your eyes and don’t look until I say.”

He didn’t waste time after that, scaling the wall as fast as he can find hand and toe holes. He could see as

Ataashi turned to climb the wall just as the reinforcements came in, sprinting to the nearest building, leaping to grab the lip of a sill and pull himself up. It put him several rooves from Feladara but at least it raised him outside of the courtyard that was undoubtedly about to become a warzone. Now things were really starting to get interesting. He had two choices. Regroup with Ataashi and lose the element of surprise, allow the reinforcements the chance to settle into defensible positions. Or he could place his trust in the man he barely knew and hope that he’d have his back. Neither was a very wise decision.

 _And when have I ever been accused of being wise?_ Feladara grinned, wolfish smile all teeth as he reached for a sleep flask and ran towards the rooftop’s edge. _You better have my back, Da’isenatha,_ he spared one last thought before he hurled the flask and leapt down into the fray.

 

******

 

Ataashi wasn’t used to operating like this, all seat-of-his-pantsy. It was… exhilarating. And the elf. He had been like a force of nature, a cyclone made of bramble. A flicker of a glance in his direction and then the elf was off running. Ataashi shifted to the balls of his feet, ready to follow. He crouched on the roof, waiting, watching to see what Feladara would do next.

He was sure it would have been a sight, but then he felt the prickle on the back of his neck. He rolled to the side without bothering to look. Automatically, his right hand came up, protecting his face, as his left drew a blade. His palm blazed in sharp pain -- a cut but shallow, superficial. He didn’t have time to worry about it, at any rate. He had an outlying rogue to focus on.

He couldn’t use the ash again. He was going to have to rely on training. He eyed the man – average height, slender, shocking blonde hair, and a smirk that oozed confidence. Ataashi had a feeling he was in big trouble.

And then there wasn’t a lot of room for feeling or thinking. It was all a dance, a desperate, nearly instinctual, sway and sweep of bodies. This was bad. Very bad. All Ataashi had time to do was react and sooner or later he was going to misstep and when that happened it would be over. He was going to have to think of something clever. He let his body move on muscle memory while his mind ran through a list of his assets.

His daggers, which wouldn’t do him a lot of good as he clearly couldn’t get close enough to use them. He grimaced against the sharp ring of metal on metal as one of those very blades blocked the other rogue’s longer, hooked-steel. There were a couple throwing knives left but no way to get to and release them without telegraphing his actions. That left little more than a few sacks of Scatter, one of ash, and a last mage-breaker. Which would do exactly nothing against the blonde, as he wasn’t a mage.

This mission had probably been a bad idea…

There was nothing for it, now, however. Feladara was on the other side of the courtyard, able to do precious little, and Ataashi was clearly out-skilled. He hated counting on “luck.” It was too much to hope for, that the blonde rogue would trip up. That meant he would have to use his wits. On the fly. Oh, this was not going to end well.

Ataashi flung his arm out, sweeping the blade for the other man’s eyes. The blonde dodged easily, of course, but that didn’t matter, the edged metal was never meant to connect. As his arm passed, he pulled on a ring, carefully concealed under the armpit of his jacket. A puff of red floated out of his sleeve and into eyes that had gone wide with surprise.

The man went still, lids squeezing shut, breathing temporarily stopped as he rolled to the side. Ataashi didn’t waste time. He knew the second the move had bought him would be wasted in an attack. The other man was too good, too aware, it never would have landed. What he needed was to buy the minutes he needed. So he ran.

He knew he didn’t need to go far, over a couple rooves and down onto a sill. He pressed his back against a window, and counted breaths. The rogue came hot on his heels, three exhales later, and Ataashi was ready. The slim throwing knife sank into his neck. The body fell the rest of the way, landing with a wet crunch and in a twisted, sickening crumple. If the knife hadn’t killed him that fall had. Ataashi’s stomach turned but there wasn’t time to indulge his conscience, there had been mages flooding the courtyard and he’d left the elf alone. He was sure Feladara was more than capable but he rushed back anyway.

 

********

 

In the brief moments before the flask shattered, sending the fine powder crafted to lull anyone who inhaled it into a haze of almost sleep, Feladara scanned the courtyard and took stock of his opposition. Mages, the lot of them. The very ones he mentioned to Ataashi that might be lurking about. Six in total and too many to handle if he couldn’t at least thin the numbers swiftly. If the flask went to work, he could kill two possibly three before the effects began to wear off. After that, he was relying on his new associate to help him deal with the rest. Hopefully, Ataashi could pull another trick from his sleeve.

The flask shattered, a cloud of purple tinged dust billowing into the air just before his feet touched dirt. The mages coughed, spluttered, scrambling to cover their noses and mouths too late as they began to sway on their feet. Heads lolling, eyes glassy they fell into a stupor. Feladara had very little time to cut these numbers down to something far more manageable for an elf with naught but his smarts and his daggers. He landed in a crouch behind the first mage, one sweep of his dagger sliced through the tendons at her ankles and sent her crashing to her knees. He hooked the wicked curve of his dagger around her neck and felt it sever her throat. One down.

He spun to the side, first blade biting into the second mage’s right side where neck met shoulder, the other repeating the movement on the left - almost taking the mage’s head clean from his shoulders. Feladara brought a bare foot to the mage’s chest, kicking him back and pulling daggers free with a spray of arterial blood. Two down.

The dust was clearing, the sleeping powder losing potency and still Feladara could see no sign of Ataashi. No moment to consider possible abandonment, or wonder at the presence of the bitter tang of betrayal rising in the back of his throat. Four mages still stood, two shaking off the effects of his flask and preparing themselves to cast. Feladara was almost out of time.

With a burst of speed Feladara threw himself at the third mage, who stood still trying to shake off the powder’s haze, sliding around past fumbling hands as they readied a staff to appear at his back. He didn’t have time to go for the throat, sinking both blades down into the meat of his back instead and kicking at his knees to send him crashing face first into the ground. Not dead - but he soon would be. That was three.

Feladara turned just in time to dodge a jet of flame, felt the heat of it scorch alongside his cheek and thanked the Creators his cowl had some measure of protection against mage fire. He’d not even taken another step before another jet of flame arced towards him, Feladara hitting dirt and rolling to avoid the brutal onslaught. This mage had a ridiculous amount of power and little finess - hurling fire about with a ham-fisted display of strength and hoping the sheer amount of fire would hit its target. Sloppy and yet Feladara for all his speed could only dodge so much. He came to his feet, leaping aside to avoid another blast of flame and narrowly missing the ice glyph forming just to his right. _Fen’harel ver na, Ataashi if you’ve left me to deal with the mages on my own._

Chanting to his left, the Tevene garbled enough by the distance for Feladara to barely understand what the mage was casting. He dodged another jet of flame, spun to avoid the jut of ice exploding from the ground and felt the tug of magic begin to slow his movements, body sluggish. Heavy.

Entropy magic. Wonderful.

He stumbled, limbs suddenly left with all the grace of a newborn halla. Fumbling. Creators, but the urge to sleep was overpowering. It took everything within just to keep dodging flame and ice.

“You will die, elf!” Someone spat. One of the mages. Feladara could barely form thought enough to pinpoint a direction to decipher who. “I will enjoy feeding your body to the carrion birds.”

“ _Lasa adahl su nar masa_!” Feladara snarled, tripping over nothing and stumbling to his feet just in time to avoid another uncoordinated blast of fire. He couldn’t keep this up. Not much longer.

He needed to deal with that Entropy mage. But with his body barely heeding his commands, stumbling about like every drunk he’d seen leaving the tavern in the wee hours of the morning, he couldn’t hope to bridge the distance between them without drawing even more fire and more ice. Feladara wasn’t stupid. He’d take two steps and everything would be over in seconds. Distance, at least for the moment, was the only thing keeping him alive.

He could slip into the shadows. He lacked the grace to disappear completely but he could hide enough to buy him time. Precious seconds of life to figure a way out of this mess. If he could just banish the fog slipping over his senses, dulling his mind. He stumbled again.

 _So this is how I go_. He couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, feeling that unrelenting pull of life draining magic send him crashing to his knees. He grinned, a bright slash of white from the confines of his hood as his head lolled towards the ground. _You should know better, idiot. Never trust a pair of pretty eyes._

 

*****

 

When Ataashi finally cleared the roof and dove, flattening himself, he had only a handful of moments to take in the courtyard. Bodies littered it, the children in the pens were sleeping, the older, bigger ones were groggily coming to. He spotted a few new bodies in the rubble. _Maker_ , he cursed inwardly. There were three mages down there, if their robes were anything to judge by. Two stood doing nothing. One was casting, the air around her hazy, like a hot summer day.

That was when his eyes spotted the elf. _His_ elf. Face down on the ground, the two non-casting mages moving, almost languidly, toward him. He felt his chest clench, instantly thinking he was dead. But that was stupid. He forced himself to his feet and ran the rooftops, crouched low, as silent as could be. He circled around behind the casting mage. _He’s fine_ , he told himself, already tearing on his sleeve to free the mage-breaker. _He trusted you. Don’t let him down._ And on that somber note he completed his loop and jumped.

It was fortunate the mage was too busy gloating to pay attention to him. He had the thin metal rod in her back before his feet hit the ground. He rolled, letting the momentum of the fall carry him, and came up running, the mage’s scream of pain at his back. The other mages turned in time to spot him, raise a hand to cast, but he reached into the pouch of ash, pulling out a handful, and threw it into the eyes of the one on his left. The one on his right got a spray of red dust. That exhausted most of his assets. But they had bought him a much greater one.

He didn’t stop to deal with the mages. In fact, he slid right past them and grabbed up a stirring Feladara by his underarms. “Upsy daisy sleepy head,” he quipped, forcing a smile and pulling the elf to his feet. “This is no time for a nap,” he continued, shaking him a little until he was standing under his own power. Below them Ataashi spotted two daggers, red and black. He bent, grabbing them up quickly and pressing them into the elf’s hands. “And here I thought you were a professional,” he snarked, winking at the spy before him, smile wide, taunting and playful.

With his feet steady beneath him, daggers in his hands and magic no longer clouding his mind it was like he’d never been moments away from meeting his death, face down in the dirt. Feladara could barely believe his luck. But no, not luck. He smiled, surprising himself with the genuine tug of his lips in response to Ataashi’s playful taunting and wide grin. _Seems this pair of pretty eyes is trustworthy after all._

“Took your time, Da’isenatha.” He snarked right back, spinning to press his back to Ataashi’s as the remaining mages did their level best to flank them. “Decided the bathhouse was a better option after all?”

Ataashi's heart was still recovering from a nearly uncomfortable hiccup at that smile when their backs pressed together. _Maker, that smile._ He tried to keep at least two of mages in his sights. There was no way the one mage was getting the breaker out on her own, so she only posed a threat as a distraction, but this had been too close of a call already. He wasn’t going to take more chances. “Bath house? Maker, no,” he laughed, feeling his blood singing with battle lust. “I had a dance with a beautiful blond man. Got a bit distracted.”

“If you’re going to go tearing off after every pretty thing that caches your eye, I will be heartbroken.” Feladara spun a dagger in his hand, grin sharp as he watched the mages circle. “But I will be generous because you have such pretty eyes. Take your pick. Fire or Ice?”

The flush in Ataashi's cheeks was just from the exertion. That was all. “I think I read a poem about that once,” he shot back. “It was morbid. I call ice. You’ve already had a snooze. Need to get that blood boiling again.” Andraste’s ass but this smile would not run away from his face. His cheeks were beginning to burn.

Lust for death, for slaver blood quietened the flare of panic at the thought of taking on the fire mage alone. But that panic was his - not for Ataashi’s knowledge. No matter the man came back. Old hurts were not for new partnerships. Instead Feladara winked, a mischievous thing tossed over his shoulder while he kept a glancing look on the mages from the corner of his eye. “Nothing like working up a sweat with a bit of exertion. Do try to keep up, Da’isenatha. It’s far more enjoyable when we match pace.”

And with that, he leapt forward in a blur of shadow and blades, slipping into shadow step and launching himself towards the mage before an uncontrolled jet of flame could find it’s way to scorch a single piece of flesh.

“Oh you cheeky little…” Ataashi didn’t have time to finish the thought. The ice mage hurled a dark, frozen ball at his head and he had to roll to the side. “Drinks are on me if you finish first,” he shouted when he got his feet under him again.

“Be prepared to spend a lot of coin then!” Feladara called back, exploding from the shadows as he spoke just in time to duck a wicked blast of flame. “Ataashi duck!”

Ataashi dropped to a crouch without thinking, feeling the searing heat sail over his head just in time. “You might want to do something about all that flame getting hurled about!”

“You’re too used to throwing orders about, Da’isenatha!” Feladara danced over a fire glyph before it could form. “Stop being so bossy!”

“Less banter, more stabbing, brat!” Ataashi came to his feet, focusing on the mage as he skittered backwards with every step the assassin took forwards. The ice mage had an air of panic in his eyes. Oh he knew he was outmatched and he had no interest in dying here. He could see behind his eyes with every blink, in the way he didn’t cast with the deadly force he should have. No interest in killing. Or at least, not as much interest as he had in living until tomorrow. The shards of ice released from his hands were pure instinct, defensive and easily dodged with a single side step.

Cold prickled on the back of his neck and with a grin that sent a flash of fear spiking in the fire mage’s eyes, Feladara dodged to the right. The fire mage raised his hands all too late, the ice impacting his chest and sending him off his feet. Two long strides and Feladara buried his blades in his chest, bare foot pressed into the mage’s throat as he pulled them free and flicked the blood to the sand. He didn’t linger to watch the life fade from his eyes, turning in time to see Ataashi lower his shoulder and rush the remaining mage.

Ataashi charged. His shoulder connected hard, knocking the air from the mage and he lifted him easily, driving them both into a stone wall. He twisted, arm reaching up and grabbing him about the throat. Even now, all that fear in his eyes, a look that knew death was coming, he didn’t use lethal force. “Tell me your name,” he growled at the mage. He lessened his grip just a little. Just enough for the mage to rasp out his response.

“Calder Bilsby,” he gasped breathlessly. Ataashi saw the truth of that in his eyes.

“You run, Calder Bilsby,” he snarled venomously. “You run as far as you can for as long as you can. And when you collapse, get up and run some more. If I ever see you in this city again, if I ever so much as hear your name whispered among slavers you’ll wish I’d killed you tonight.” He pulled his hand from the man’s throat and watched him scramble away. His other hand tucked the papers he’d pulled from the mage’s robes into a vest pocket.

“I wonder how drunk I’ll have to get you to liberate that from your person.” Feladara smirked, coming up behind Ataashi just as he secreted away those slips of paper. “I’m willing to give it a damn good go.”

He couldn’t help the chuckle those words pulled free. “Can’t tell you their worth,” he said, patting his chest. “I haven’t read them yet.” He turned and favored the elf with a smile that was more delighted and genuine than he was entirely comfortable with, regardless of how close fighting for your lives brought people. He nodded to the last mage. She was on her knees, still trying to pull the breaker from her body. Rendered entirely useless without her magic.

“Perhaps I just want to get you drunk.” Feladara winked, a impish delight in his eyes. He turned as Ataashi gestured with his head, staring over at the final mage - useless now due to whatever his fellow assassin had done to her. The smile twitched on his lips, delight slipping away and something darker taking it’s place. Feladara began to stalk forward, slow and deliberate steps so he could enjoy the frantic scramble of the mage as she scrabbled at her back. Watched her mouth open and close for the want of words that would not come as Feladara idly considered the blades in his hands.

“Please.” She finally whimpered. “You do not have to kill me. The other mage. You let him go.”

“Because my companion is kinder than I.” Feladara shrugged. “But you’re not dealing with him.”

Even though she stood a head taller than him, Feladara lifted her with ease, hand fisted in her robes as he tugged her to her feet. She struggled but without her magic she had little strength. Feladara grinned.

“You’re dealing with me.”

“Ple…” The pleading word was choked off, gurgling from her mouth as Feladara slipped his dagger into her gut. She twitched in his grasp.

“ _Su an’banal i’ma_.” He slid his blade free and turned, not bothering to watch her crumple to the ground. She would die. Slowly. That was all that mattered. He flicked the blood from his blades and slid them home into their sheaths, already dashing towards the cage holding the youngest of those captured - the children watching with wide, scared eyes.

“Ssssh now, da’lens.” He murmured, already pulling free his lock picks and working on the lock. “I’m so sorry you had to see such death so soon. But they can’t hurt you anymore, understand?” The elflings, so tiny and so afraid, whimpered softly. “Soon you’ll be free and we will keep you safe. My friend and I.”

He glanced over at Ataashi. “Start on the other cage?”

Ataashi nodded, ignoring the warmth blooming in his chest. He moved, his own picks making short work of the simple tumblers holding the pen shut. This man, this elf of paradoxes and contradictions – beauty and death, kindness and vengeance.  How could he take a life one moment, and the next be nurturing small, terrified urchins? There was so much more to Feladara than he let Ataashi see. He wanted to know every single hidden place in that mind. The elf was a riddle he desperately wanted to solve.

He smiled at the children, these the eldest, and pulled the door open. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked. They were experienced children, they would know he meant something more than scratches or bruises. They all shook their heads. “Good,” he smiled. “I’m going to need you all to watch the little ones, make them feel safe, be brave for them, okay? My friend and I, we’ll take care of all of you, get you somewhere safe, but we need your help. Do you think you can help us?”

Most of the children nodded, eyes wide with shock, but also feeling hopeful, and helpful. “Are you a hero?” one boy piped up. His voice was small, like the rest of him and hoarse from disuse, he hoped. “You and your friend?”

Ataashi laughed, darting a glance toward his “friend.” What a question. He returned his gaze to the boy and tucked a finger under his chin. He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “We’re all heroes, da’len,” he whispered. “Each and every one of us, if we choose to be.” The boy smiled at him, a genuine crooked little thing and Ataashi smiled back before he stood and ushered them all from the cage. He’d need to retrieve the breakers before they left, but first, the last pen.

Feladara could hear Ataashi’s murmured words, a strange kind of warmth pooling low in his stomach at the simple kindness, the gentle playfulness of his tone. Who was he, this man who returned when he should run? Who spoke to elvhen children in soft tones and smiled when others would sneer. Feladara shook his head. It wouldn’t do to get distracted now.

The lock fell free, Feladara cooing softly when the clang and thud sent the little ones skittering to the back of the cage. “I’m going to open the door now, da’lens and I would very much like if you would come outside. I promise, nothing here will harm a single hair upon your heads. Not while I have breath left. Can you do that for me?”

Cautiously they began to creep forward, small steps at a time - some on unsteady feet still not yet used to walking. Feladara choked down the rumbling growl begging to be voiced at just how young some of these children were. It wouldn’t do to frighten them all over again with anger he couldn’t control. “That’s it. A few more steps, da’lens and then you’ll be out of that cage.”

A small boy, a head of what might have been blonde hair once if dirt hadn’t coloured it a filthy, muddy colour, stopped where Feladara was crouched and reached out a tiny, shaking hand. He traced the Vallaslin winding its way across the bridge of his nose, branching up over his forehead. Feladara smiled. The boy’s lips curved with his own.

“Do you think you could all come out now?” the little boy nodded and the rest followed suit. “Is everyone able to walk?”

The little boy shook his head, pointing over to a small girl curled up in the corner. “Her leg hurts.”

“Okay, my little friends.” Feladara stood from his crouch and moved to the side, away from the door. “Everyone see that very pretty man over there? I want you to go over to him and wait while I help this lovely lil lady out.”

The children, staring wide-eyed at Ataashi and the older children surrounding him suddenly burst into action and dashed across the short distance. Some to be reunited with older siblings, others to stand hesitantly and wait. Feladara crawled inside the cage, determined to keep low to the ground and to a height that kept him from towering over the small child. She stared up at him and simply raised her arms, entrusting Feladara to lift her from the ground without protest. His heart ached at the sight of her twisted ankle, the bruises on her leg. Fingerprints. He bit back a snarl.

Scooping her into his arms, mindful of the blood staining his clothes, he walked free from the cage with the little girl’s fingers clutching at his clothes. Her small face buried against his neck.

As much as his heart warmed with seeing Feladara cradling a tiny injured elvhen girl, one who buried her face in his chest and _rested_ for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Ataashi couldn’t help but smile at the oldest children, at how they leapt to play their part. He knew which pen they had been in. They were too old to be of much use, they’d have too many memories of their lives before. They’d be too hard to condition. They had been destined to be fodder. The youngest would have been sold into households, young enough to mold into good servants. That left the last cage, those intended for the brothels. He observed them as he moved toward it. The pen contained more girls than boys. When they were properly grown they would be great beauties. Even now, most of them just barely into their adolescence, they were striking.

They looked more wary than any of the others. They had likely seen some rough use during travel. Any doubt he had of that was erased when he saw the venom in those eyes. Too young to be so jaded. Angry, not scared. And who was he? Not one of them, they could tell that just by looking. Just another shem. Not to be trusted.

Feladara saw the poison, saw the anger and the hate and knew nothing Ataashi said would make these children leave that cage. No trust to be found for the man who looked the same as their captors. The same as every other shemlen who would use and abuse them for the rest of their lives. He couldn’t offer them more kindness than what Ataashi already had, Feladara knew this. But he could offer something else.

“Da’len.” He whispered to the little girl clinging so tightly. “I’d very much like to introduce you to my friend. I’m sure he gives the best hugs, if you ask nicely.” He felt her nod against his neck. “I’m going to ask him to hold you for a little bit now, okay?” Another nod, a slight shift and then she was watching him from the corner of her deep brown eyes.

“Can you take her for a moment?” He glanced up at Ataashi.

Ataashi nodded lifting the girl into his arms and snuggling her close. No words for Feladara, only a grateful smile, tinged with regret. And then he moved away from the cage to join the children who had already been freed, and to give his partner room to work. Though he stayed close enough to hear, just in case he was needed. The children closed ranks around him, gathering close.

Precious burden safely tucked in Ataashi’s arms, Feladara turned to that last pen. Several glares flashed back out at him, rage and fear in equal measure.

“Mistrust will keep you safe, Anger keep you alive.” He flicked back his hood, watching their poison-filled gazes lock on to the site of his pointed ears. “But sometimes we’ve got to take a bit of a risk on someone to get a chance to do more than just be alive. Did you see what I did to those slavers?”

“You killed them.” One girl said, a smile started to lift the corners of mouth.

“Damn right I killed them.” Feladara grinned. “So you don’t trust my friend. I’m not surprised. You see shem and think threat. But for a little while, do you think you could try trusting me? I’ll get you somewhere safe, somewhere other than this pile of shit city after that and you can decide from then on who you’ll trust and who you’ll stick a blade through their ribs.”

And just like he’d hoped, one by one, they slowly came out of the pen. Still refusing to get too close to Ataashi but Feladara counted it a win all the same. He cast his eyes over the gathered group, gaze falling on the man standing heads taller than everyone there and smiled.

“Let’s get you all somewhere safe.”

 

*****

 

The route they’d taken followed some of the less reputable streets in the city. They were, however, remarkably clear. No criminals, no peddlers, not a soul actually. It seemed Feladara wasn’t too bad at planning himself. They’d walked the avenues side by side, a gaggle of children trailing around and behind. He’d carried the little elf girl in his arms the entire way, nuzzled into his chest and fast asleep. Feladara’s contact, a dark skinned elf with a shock of brilliant white hair, unfamiliar Vallaslin and a greatsword as tall as he had swept her from Ataashi’s arms not long after they’d arrived. Feladara assured Ataashi that, despite his severe expression, the little one would be more than safe in his care. Those words and the small, warm smile tugging crooked on the white-haired elf’s lips eased Ataashi’s concern. Hearing the children were destined for the Free Marches, aboard a pirate ship of all things, had that spike of concern returning. With a snort of laughter from Feladara and a huff from the white-haired elf, he was assured once again that the children would be more than safe on the particular ship - her captain having smuggled former and soon to be slaves from Tevinter for over a year now - on and off. Not to mentioned the white-haired elf would be along for the journey - apparently not staying in Tevinter.

Elvhen warriors and pirate captains - Feladara kept interesting company, that was for certain.

With the children safe in the care of Feladara’s contacts, they’d returned to the streets, walking side by side along the docks.

There was no denying the night had been a success. A ring foiled, blood mages eliminated, he’d even retrieved the mage-breakers and his daggers. All and all he was out a single throwing knife, two bags of ash, and the tricks of his sleeves needed to be re-set. Remembering all the little faces bobbing around him he couldn’t help but feel _any_ loss would have been worth this large a gain.

Of course, there were still many questions. Things he needed to know, papers he needed to read. Those were for another time. “So where are we on the buying drinks tally?” he asked casually, favoring Feladara with a gleaming smile. Maker, but he felt a little drunk already. “I owe you one for the fire mage, but I have the papers…”

“For now.” Feladara smirked. “The night is young and unless you have to dash away to wherever it is you go, I’ve got plenty of opportunity and very clever hands.”

Ataashi felt a little thrill at those words and then the answering amusement and affection through the bond. It was followed quickly by exasperation and a sensation of trying to explain something, calmly, to a particularly stupid child. It seemed Dorian was still engaged. They had the masquerade to get to, and Ataashi still had the cut on his palm to deal with, but the night was young. Most of these soirees didn’t start until quite late. And this was a big one. It would likely not even begin until the witching hour.

“Home,” Ataashi said slowly. “That’s where I dash away too. Though I could be tempted to have _a_ drink. No need to wait for me to be inebriated before putting your clever hands to work.”

“Home?” Feladara’s voice held a strange quality, something tugging at the playful tone and lending it an edge he wasn’t sure the elf intended. “Must be nice. Not many assassins I know have much of a home to return to.”

Ataashi reached out to touch Feladara’s shoulder, squeezed it gently and smiled at him. An attempt to convey something too complicated for words -- part apology, part sympathy, part appreciation for his strength. And part promise.

“At any rate,” Feladara didn’t shrug the hand from his shoulder but it was a near thing, even if his lips quirked in one of those brief flickers of a smile. Ataashi didn’t take the tension bunching muscles to heart. “A drink before you dash off to wherever you call home and do whatever it is you do when you get there.”

“These days,” Ataashi chuckled, letting his hand drop, “I feel more like me when I’m running the streets with you than I do at home. So yes, I think I’d like that drink.”

“Two dates and you’re saying sweet nothings already.” Feladara’s smirk was a wicked, mischievous thing. “Are you so easily seduced, my friend?”

Ataashi pressed his hand to his chest and tried his best to affect a scandalized tone. “I am not that type of fellow, I assure you. I have a strict _three_ date rule before any hanky panky.”

“Does the drink count as our third date? You do seem eager to put my ‘clever hands to work’. I’d hate to deny you after such a dashing rescue earlier.” A pause, the amusement dancing in his eyes sharpening, an intense gaze that had Ataashi quashing the urge to squirm. “Why _did_ you come back? I’d led you into a situation that was clearly more than either of us expected. You should have cut your loses and run. I’d half expected you already had.”

Something about the way the elf said it had him expecting it was a little more than half. “And leave you there?” he asked, brow furrowing. “I couldn’t do that. You were counting on me.”

“And that’s all it takes? You give your world and no matter what you keep it?” Disbelief coloured every word, Feladara shaking his head. “You’re a rare creature if that’s the case. Especially in this blighted place.”

“Well, no,” Ataashi smirked. “Not no matter what. Only when someone deserves it.” The light was so dim in this corner of the city, mostly illuminated by the candlelight filtering through people’s homes, but there was enough to see by. And more than enough to observe the elf. The question had been set as a throw away, a quip, a bit of cleverness but that only underscored its importance. “You didn’t leave me on the docks when I’d fumbled into more danger than I could handle. I’m not about to leave you when I’m supposed to have your back, Feladara.”

He didn’t say the rest. Didn’t tell him his loyalty, once earned, was nearly unbreakable. Didn’t tell him the people who meant something to him could ask him for anything. He’d probably read too much into that, be unnerved by the intensity of it. No, Feladara wasn’t quite one of those people yet -- Maker, he didn’t even know his true name -- but he was on his way.

Feladara huffed out a laugh, something akin to exasperation tangled with his amused disbelief. “Loyalty. What a novel concept.” He reached out and Ataashi felt the sharp jab of a long finger into his side. “Nope. You feel real. I didn’t just dream you up.”

Ataashi broke into a fit of giggles. He couldn’t help it. “Oh, oh maker, Feladara,” he gasped out in between mirthful laughs. “Oh, if I’m the man of your dreams you are in so, _so_ much trouble.”

“Haven’t you worked it out yet, Da’isenatha?” And oh the wicked promise in those eyes sent Ataashi’s stomach swooping. “I _like_ trouble.”

Ataashi stopped dead in his tracks, heart beating a little more quickly than it ought to have been. “Oh,” he breathed out. “I… um…. I guess I hadn’t worked it out?” He was feeling a bit light-headed now, could feel his palms sweating under his gloves.

“Well, let me make it clear.” The elf slipped right into Ataashi’s personal space, eyes hooded as he began to slide his palms up over the soft leather of his vest. Maker, surely Feladara could feel the jackrabbit of his pulse thudding beneath the smooth press of those clever hands, the teasing walk of fingers as they traced over stitching and clasps. His breath rushed out, shaky as the elf rose up on tiptoes, looking for all the world like he was about to steal a kiss. He could feel the puff of breath against his lips as Feladara spoke. “I. Like.  Trouble.”

“I-I…” he swallowed thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort. The smallest space separated them. Desire, hot and primal pooled in his stomach deactivating the higher functions of his brain. A chill he could not blame on the cold of the night set his body shivering. The bond thrummed with curiosity and answering arousal. His palm rested on the elf’s narrow hip as he blinked dumbly down into those beautiful, _captivating_ eyes and he found he was incapable of pulling away. Dorian was going to kill him with teasing if the elf kissed him.

But, _Maker_ , would it ever be worth it.

“Ataashi.” Feladara’s voice dipped into a low burr, lips so close Ataashi could almost feel the brush of them against his own. “What have I told you about getting flanked?”

And suddenly the elf was gone, dancing backwards and brandishing a bundle of papers just out of Ataashi’s reach. With a burst of bright laughter he started jogging backwards, taunting with every single wave of his hand. “It’s so good to know you can be flanked just as easily from the front as the back, Da’isenatha!”

He blinked, shaking his head until his brain started working again. A great rolling laugh pulled from him as he prepared to give chase. “Brat!” he bellowed, his amused, delighted words echoing down the quiet street. He started chasing after, knowing he could _almost_ close the gap if he tried hard enough. “Insufferable brat!” The words had never felt _less_ like an insult.

“Are you disappointed I didn’t follow through?” Feladara called back, making for the tavern as Ataashi gave chase. “The night is still young, remember!”

“A little bit,” Ataashi grumbled to himself. Not that he’d admit it to the rapscallion who stole his hard-earned intel. “You’re buying me _two_ drinks!” he shouted instead and shoved that fluttering in his stomach aside.

“And by the time you catch up, I’ll have already drunk both!”

“One man, two drinks?” He pushed harder, gap nearly closed. “Seems a little greedy.” A sudden pang of guilt as the words hit home was instantly met by Dorian’s soothing touch, plucking the string of their connection and his frown became a smile. From across the city his lover was letting him know all was well. Easing his conscious. “I suppose you can dream big.” He caught up, pulling alongside the svelte, impish man and throwing him a wink.

“After all, who are we without our dreams, Da’mis?”

 

*******

 

Feladara stared down into the dregs of the piss-weak ale sloshing in the bottom of his mug, swirling the pale liquid back and forth. Ataashi had not long since left, scurrying off home to do whatever it was he did after he’d played assassin all night. Later than he’d expected to leave, if the hasty dash out the door and the mouthful of apologies for the abrupt departure was anything to go by. Whatever distraction Feladara and the trappings of assassin provided from the mundanity of Ataashi’s life, it apparently had a time limit. He threw back the last of the ale with a single gulp and a grimace, slamming the mug down with a hollow thud.

He signalled for another drink, the serving girl - Cora - winking as she set it down beside him and he offered her a small smirk in return. His coin was always good here and the barkeep didn’t mind him running a tab. Anyone willing to drink the swill he sold was welcomed with open arms. Almost.

Feladara lifted the mug. Another swig, another grimace. Another long moment contemplating the swirl of the watered down, sorry excuse for ale.

His information hadn’t prepared him for the reality of the man. Every piece of it needed revision, a lot of it tossed aside all together, after just an evening spent in Ataashi’s company. He’d expected an assassin, new and a bit fumbling, but an assassin all the same. But Ataashi? Ataashi was no assassin. Ataashi _played_ at being an assassin. He wore the title like a costume, like a mask. Fumbling skills Feladara could easily explain away - a simple rogue’s prowess turned to darker purpose became ungainly, unfamiliar. They could feel as foreign as the first time your hand closed around a dagger hilt. Even the most skilled could find themselves stumbling blindly once again.

Feladara smirked around the rim of his mug. Ataashi was certainly skilled, of that he had absolutely no doubt. To watch him move, power and grace in equal measure, was a feast for the eyes Feladara would not soon forget. And yet…

It was more than fumbling skills, more than the clever masks and crafted personas. Ataashi possessed a quality Feladara had never seen in any assassin he’d encountered before. A quality Ataashi seemed in no hurry to rid himself of.

He didn’t _want_ to kill. More than that, he _chose_ not to kill. Even when he held the life of a slaver in his hands, when it would be cleaner, tidier to take his life Ataashi set him loose. Showed mercy where Feladara - where any assassin worth their salt - would have none. And Feladara didn’t know what to do with that. Of course, looking back at it now the manner in which Ataashi chose his targets followed this same pattern. Many assassins had their own agenda but they didn’t turn down other, paying work for its pursuit. Ataashi only chose targets if he had _proof_ they deserved to die. He demanded their Slates. Assassins didn’t ask for anything as trivial as evidence. They asked for a mark and their payment. They were the tools of death - the reason for it was arbitrary.

Feladara huffed, settling the mug on the table as he lost himself further to his thoughts.

Respect….respect was just something Feladara hadn’t accounted for and surprisingly he found a great deal of it welling as he thought of how Ataashi behaved. He was...good. Kind, compassionate and yet firm, fair with an edge of darkness that he wielded with surety and yet he seemed free from its taint. And he was clever, for all of Feladara’s teasing to the contrary he could recognise brilliance when he was in the presence of it and Ataashi’s tactical mind _was_ brilliant. Clever, compassionate and _gorgeous_. Feladara shook his head with a wry smile. For all the man was a frustration, a question and a complication, he was _very_ pretty to look at.

And yet...it wasn’t this that unsettled Feladara. Respect was surprising but not overly concerning. Attraction was a fun distraction and easily dealt with. What made him nervous was the ease of their comradery. How quickly he’d made the decision to trust Ataashi to have his back when all logic, all reason told him he’d been left abandoned. How he’d been so wrong when Ataashi had swooped in and proven his trust had been placed correctly. Loyalty. He’d not expected that either. More than finding him attractive, now Feladara found he genuinely _liked_ the man. When he’d fully expected not to. And that...that was dangerous. Genuine regard coupled with attraction for a potential threat never ended well.

Months gathering intel, of formulating an idea of the man and a plan to deal with him only to have it shattered to pieces in one evening.

Feladara shook his head, lifting his mug and throwing back his ale with several long pulls before setting the empty tankard down. He pushed back from the small wooden table in the corner he’d come to think of his own, for how often he sat at it, leaving the din of his shadowed little hole in the wall behind. Pausing to slide coin over the bar to pay for his drinks, he stepped out into the night air.

He’d have to start fresh, take into account everything he’d learned tonight. When the memory of Ataashi’s warm laughter had faded, when the lingering smile at the remembered sound of it had disappeared. When he could forget, for that brief moment, the heat of desire that flared to life - hot and undeniable between them. How Feladara, intending only to seduce to steal away those papers, had almost lost himself in the want to actually slant his mouth over those waiting lips. He could start again when his head was clear and back on task. But for now, now Feladara needed to retire for the night.

He’d get more answers in the morning.

 

******

Elvhen Translations - Thanks to Project Elvhen

 

 _Fen’harel ver na_ \- Dread Wolf take you

 _Lasa adahl su nar masa -_ Shove a tree up your arse

 _Su an’banal i’ma_ \- To the Void With You.

* Feladara has a _very_ dirty mouth on him, if you hadn’t already guessed *winks*

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so our delightful Assassin duo, scourge of slavers everywhere, have their first real outing together! Is it the beginning of a beautiful friendship? A torrid love affair? Feladara and Ataashi's Excellent Adventure? Or perhaps our Elvhen spy is up to something a lot more sinister. Are Dorian and Fitzwilliam going to have yet another problem to deal with? 
> 
> We know and you'll find out. Eventually. *wicked grin*
> 
> This is my first opportunity to formally say hi to all the people who've been reading this awesome fic. Hi! I'm Eclectify and I will be your Co-Author this evening. If you'd like to hear the specials or see the wine list, please let me know. *winks*
> 
> I'm excited to be doing my first posting and first author's note on Redeemers - almost as much as I am to now be co-writing it! I hope you're all enjoying my addition to the series. I know it's been an absolutely amazing story in RikkiTikkiCathy's hands and I only hope to help her keep writing such awesome words. This chapter was the first one I really had a big hand in writing so I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> And next time, I'll remember to post on time *grins*
> 
> ~<3


	9. Chapter 9

Ataashi might have been out of breath when he clambered through their bedchamber window, and out of time to see to the cut on his hand, and maybe a _little_ drunk. But none of those things could chase his smile away.

He moved to the side of the bed to stand before the tall looking glass there.  Slowly, one at a time, the pieces of his assassin blacks fell away. First the gloves, revealing his marked hand and then, with a hiss, the one which had been cut. It really was very shallow, more annoying than anything. The vest came next - the one which had, until recently, harbored important papers. He smirked, thinking on the snarky elf he had reluctantly left behind. Feladara could probably make better use of the information anyway.

He continued, bit by bit, thinking back fondly on their night. Feeling proud of what they had accomplished and grateful he had a chance to show Feladara a bit of kindness he’d clearly not seen in a long while. His lips quirked ever-upward. The night had felt so genuine, so honest. He felt so much like himself.

Finally naked he turned to the mirror. This was always the last part, looking at his face and removing the assassin from it. But this time he found no glimpse of the hardness in his eyes, no dangerous bite in the white of his teeth. The mask had fallen away hours ago. He’d just been Fitzwilliam. A delighted laugh bubbled up inside him and he let it free even as he turned to look down at the bed.

His eyes fell to the elaborate costume laid out for him and the laughter _died_ , strangled in his throat by the reality of the outfit represented. The rest of this night would be spent on Dorian’s arm, a vapid, brainless arm-sweet. Something pretty to flaunt and distract with. A tool. He sighed, his mood darkened as put on the clothing.

White trousers, well-fitted, satin. Shirt, brilliant white and silver and cream, the breast spattered with glistening clear stones and shimmering pearls. A long white jacket with tails that swept behind him like a train. Sandals, to give the illusion of wearing shoes.

He stood before the mirror, clad in an outfit which was worth enough to feed a village for a year, his face expressionless as he lifted the last piece -- a beautiful feathered mask. It was white, like the rest of his costume with a beak and little jewels decorating about the eyes. He secured the tie at the base of his skull, the bird resting atop his head. In the mirror it looked like a down wig. He reached up, lowering it. In the looking glass his smile glittered to life, his eyes lost their intelligence, the mask settled.

And then, the feathered one followed.

 

*******

 

They’d made quite the entrance. Of course they had. How could they not with Dorian making certain every element of their costumes drew the eye as effortlessly as if they’d arrived to the Ball sans all clothing instead. Fitzwilliam had known, the moment he’d spied his own costume spread out over the bed waiting for his return, that Dorian’s costume would put the elegant beauty of Fitzwilliam’s outfit to shame. Oh, the sharp spike of lust he’d felt as Dorian first turned to greet him with a wide, pleased smile and looking nothing short of magnificent in an outfit so similar to his own, save for the brilliant colours. How the heat coiled low in his gut at that way the deep purple trousers clung to every long line of Dorian’s legs, how the cut of his coat - in an emerald hue that should look garish against the purple and yet looked everything _but_ \- emphasised the broadness of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist. How the tails, much like his own, trailed behind him only they glittered with sapphire and gold and that same deep purple lending Dorian an elegance Fitzwilliam could only hope to achieve. And from beneath the feathered mask, sapphire blue threaded with gold, Dorian’s eyes burned with an answering heat as he swept them over Fitzwilliam from his feathered head to his sandal-covered feet.

A Peacock - Fitzwilliam had laughed then, delighted at how pleased Dorian seemed with himself at his design coming to fruition. Delight he found suddenly quicksilver in his grasp, slip-sliding away as he realised what his own costumed represented. A white Peacock. Something supposedly rare and beautiful yet all Fitzwilliam saw was a thing devoid of colour. Glittering and shining and unique when stood all on it’s own but when compared to the stunning riot of emerald, sapphire, violets and golds Dorian wore, Fitzwilliam faded to the background. Just as he was supposed to. Compliment but never outshine, direct attention to Dorian but always downplay his own importance, his own brilliance. What all at once reminded Fitzwilliam of Dorian’s societal genius, left him with a bone deep ache as the ties of this mask he’d agreed to force upon himself tightened just that little bit more. A noose of his own making, strangling him. With every party, every pretty but empty smile Fitzwilliam tripped over weights willingly tied around his ankles even as Dorian began to take flight. When Dorian started to soar, would Fitzwilliam remain a withering tree rooted to the ground? Not now, not with the memory of flight still singing in his veins - the rooftops of Tevinter spread out before him and the snap of a red braid like a beacon to the freedom they offered. Fitzwilliam refused to allow this place to clip his wings.

Fitzwilliam watched his lover work the room, something glorious in the way he navigated the tangled hedge maze of polite compliments and thinly veiled threats, words dripping with poison delivered with a smile and a kiss to the cheeks. Even the thread of irritation thrumming across the bond sung with a measure of delight if plucked just so and Fitzwilliam knew, despite the dull drudgery of endless parties and meetings and senate forums, something in Dorian had come to life here in Tevinter. His cause...what was supposed to be _their_ cause filling him with a sense of purpose and determination, with a drive that Fitzwilliam struggled to maintain, given the many masks, the many roles he had to play. Tonight, clad in finery so carefully chosen by the man he loved to further a plan Fitzwilliam had insisted he be a part, all he managed to summon was a bitter resentfulness that tasted like bile at the back of his throat.

He needed a distraction, his thoughts leading him down a dangerous path and making it all the more difficult to plaster that inane smile across his face. A glass of wine to hide the irritated slant of his frown then, Fitzwilliam pressing it to the delicate crystal and disguising the downward tug of his mouth as a unimpressed comment on the quality of the wine. He held it there until he could summon the smile back to his carefully bored features, taking another sip before lowering the glass.  Rolling the finely crafted stem between thumb and forefinger, he watched his mage from across the room.

Dorian moved to speak to yet another man with a face Fitzwilliam ought to remember but found, tonight, he just didn’t care enough to. A pulse of determination, a thread of concern and a sparkle of mischief - all tangled together with the warmth of Dorian’s affection brushing against Fitzwilliam as the bond broadcasted his lover’s current state of mind. This man who’s name escaped Fitzwilliam was someone Dorian wanted to talk to then. Gaining the man’s attention was not just making nice or showing a polite face - that would account for that thread of determination. Dorian wanted to make an impression, wanted whatever he said to linger in the man’s mind longer than the duration of their discussion.

The caress of Dorian’s concern was clearly a response to Fitzwilliam’s obvious unease and irritability - some of that twinkle of mischief as well. Fitzwilliam felt lips twitch for the want of his first genuine smile of the evening and sent what he hoped was gratitude minus the aggravation that dogged his heels before he’d even stepped foot in the ballroom.

His current mood robbed him of the usual delight in watching Dorian in his element, instead the quickest way to sour his mood further - trapped as he was in this endless loop of banal conversation, glasses of wine and vapid smiles without any way of enjoying himself and keeping character at the same time. Fitzwilliam turned his attention to their surroundings, the ballroom a swirling palette of colour as the costumes all danced together in shades and combinations almost impossible to imagine. Everyone in the room doing their best to outshine the others without seeming too desperate to do so. To appear effortless in their brilliance and spending coin enough to feed family upon family living in Tevinter’s slums.

He’d seen some of those families tonight, seen the effects of poverty written all over the faces of those children he’d helped Feladara free earlier in the evening. As each display of wealth and excess swept past him, Fitzwilliam could hardly bite back the swell of anger nor the want to bark out in his fury to these arrogant, pompous, _heartless_ pieces of shit who cared only about their status and maintaining their place in a city dying beneath their golden clad feet. He felt the bite of fine crystal in his too tight grasp, accompanied by another - more insistent wave of concern from Dorian - and forced himself to reign in his anger. Feladara had unleashed something in Fitzwilliam, something raw and _honest_ and he was struggling to box it back up within the package surrounded in the pretty wrapping he needed to present to Tevinter’s elite.

This was the long game, Fitzwilliam needed to remind himself. Tonight’s victory against the slavers may have felt greater somehow, felt more important when faced with the endless reminder of how little those who made the decisions in this place cared about what went on outside their own little circles. But in the end, it was only a tiny ripple in a much larger pool and no matter how good it felt to do something he could _see_ had an impact it just wasn’t enough on it’s own. He’d promised Dorian that he could do this, that he could step back and allow Dorian to go about reforming his homeland, to play the role Dorian needed him to play for their plan to work. Fitzwilliam had crafted most of that plan himself. He knew what was required of him. He had to pull himself together, had to smile and _get on with it._

Finding no reprieve to the increasingly darker mood within contemplation of the swirl of colourful costumes, Fitzwilliam looked instead to the magic lending to the decoration of the ballroom. The ceiling glittered with a galaxy of bright stars, a full moon hanging heavily in the dark of the night sky and Fitzwilliam could almost believe it to be an open roof if not for the slight flicker as the magic thrummed with a strange kind of pulse - a clock ticking uneven staccato, a skipping heartbeat. It reminded Fitzwilliam of the eerie green that sometimes caught the light when Cole disappeared within the Fade in his version of Shadowstep. That wavering light that drew attention to the otherworldliness, to the unnatural. The illusionary magic lost it’s charm when one could see the artifice in the artistry. Fitzwilliam’s lips pulled up into a decidedly nasty smile. Vanessah must be positively seething inside, to see such a sorry display of the form of magic she prided herself on its mastery. Obviously, to ask someone else to perform the delicate magic when she clearly had the greater skill was an intended slight. For what, Fitzwilliam didn’t know but found himself strangely curious about. And, if he was to be honest, perversed delighted. There was only so many passive aggressive comments delivered in that carefully dismissive, disinterest tone that Fitzwilliam could bare without developing a modicum of ill will. He wasn’t feeling all that inclined currently to pretend, at least in his own mind, that Vanessah Pavus didn’t grate on his nerves from time to time. Just another person whom he had to please - only this one he was a great deal more invested in succeeding in doing so.

He huffed, drawing the gaze of a nearby woman dressed in something opalescent and swirling about her like a thousand gossamer wings. A flicker of recognition and she moved to draw closer, a bright smile on her perfectly painted lips looking just as false at the twinkling lights overhead. The man at her side, a Magister of some minor family - important enough to have a seat in the Magisterium but not enough for Dorian to have drawn Fitzwilliam’s attention to his affiliation - smiled with far more teeth. A harmless carpet snake in a pit of vipers, longing for more poison to his bite. Hoping to cosy up to the Inquisitor and leech away at his influence - if not Fitzwilliam’s own then the kind that came due to his association with Dorian. Tevinter’s Black Sheep and Rising Star one and the same.

“Inquisitor.” The woman trilled and Fitzwilliam grit his teeth behind the somewhat shakier version of his empty but vaguely charming expression. “How fortuitous to catch you unattended this evening.”

“Is it?” Fitzwilliam tried for bored and came off belligerent. Her smile wavered. “I didn’t know you were looking for me, Lady….?”

“Colubris,” she clearly didn’t like not being instantly recognisable. “You of course would know my husband.”

“Would I?” Fitzwilliam smiled blandly, inwardly cursing at his inability to affect that kind of glittering, easy charm he needed to. He honestly just sounded downright bratty. “I’m sorry, I find myself at a loss to recall you at all.”

Now his smile wavered, disappearing almost entirely. Later, Fitzwilliam would wince at how easily he drifted off into his own head while the pair spoke to him - enough that it was clear they could easily sense his disinterest long before they made their excuses and let him be. Right now, however, he breathed a sigh of relief as they walked away. He could feel Dorian’s probing curiosity, the flicker of amusement at Fitzwilliam’s downright grouchiness still tangled together with that thread of concern. He glanced up, finding Dorian with ease as the bond thrummed steadily between them and the eye-catching beauty of his figure in that costume renewed the simmering heat of Fitzwilliam’s earlier desire. The wry amusement he sent back helped ease Dorian’s concern once again and he only just managed to disguise the shiver the answering lust sent shuddering down his spine. Fitzwilliam could see the barely imperceptible twitch of Dorian’s lips and knew that almost smile was just for him.

Another circle of the room, to give Dorian time to finish with his current conversation and then Fitzwilliam could anchor himself with even just the slightest touch of his lover’s hand and the sound of his voice. For now, Fitzwilliam felt the want for some more wine. Perhaps another glass would help do something about the downward turn of his lips.

It was honestly a shame the lovely feathered mask didn’t cover his mouth. Fitzwilliam struggling with more than just that vapid smile, especially after a night where he’d had a taste of freedom once again. A sharp stab of longing for that dingy, dive of a tavern with the wicked impishness of Feladara’s eyes watching him from across the table lanced through Fitzwilliam. As soon as a slave walked by, he deposited his empty glass and snagged another, taking several long swallows. The slave, a little thing who had probably been a city elf, or perhaps just too young to have received her Vallaslin when she was sold into “service” was of house Tenebris. Her outfit matched all the other slaves, but there was no mistaking the sparkling metallic black of her collar – pitch with slightly lights swirls, like smoke curling in the night. He longer to thank her, but his eyes had already lingered too long. He was supposed to be upholding his reputation as a party-monger. He replaced the now empty glass on another slave’s tray whilst picking a new one. To his left he spotted Dorian eyeing him, obviously now finished with his conversation.

He flashed him a smile and a lingering look that he was _sure_ the mask did nothing to disguise. It even drew a few whispers. He tried his best not to scowl, gripped his glass as a means of suppressing several obscene gestures, and sauntered back over to stand at his lover’s side. Sadly, that also meant standing at Dorian’s mother’s side as well, now standing as she was beside her son.

“Your mask is crooked, Inquisitor.” Vanessah’s voice held little but vague disappointment and great disinterest and Fitzwilliam felt his smile slip further still. She had not even bothered to turn to look at him as she spoke but Fitzwilliam felt the loss of the small shred of her attention all the same. Felt the sting of her clear dismissal as she turned to address Dorian. Just as she knew he would. “Must you dress him in something so complicated, Dorian? He does look as if he’s suffering a great deal under all those feathers.”

Dorian opened his mouth to answer for him but, for once, Fitzwilliam cut in on his own. “I imagine I’m much more comfortable in my costume than you are in yours, Magistra Pavus.” His lips curved into a smile and he let the subtle double meaning slip in. He’d noticed he wasn’t the only one affecting airs which didn’t come naturally. He lifted his glass and bowed his head slightly, punctuating his words.

Only the slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed her irritation - own mask crafted with a tenacious elegance found in all her illusionary magic. Even with the shimmering golden swirls curling about her features, disguising them in an beautiful shift of light, Fitzwilliam would be hard pressed to decipher the true nature of her feelings if he wasn’t paying attention. She quirked the arch of a fine sculptured eyebrow, the flat line of her mouth lifting in an empty smile that left Fitzwilliam feeling smaller than if she’d directly reprimanded him for his words. Perhaps, any other day, he’d smile politely in return and do his best to smooth any ruffled feathers. Tonight, Fitzwilliam found himself spoiling for a fight.

He’d only managed to open his mouth on a vitriolic comment involving her magic when he felt Dorian at his elbow and a strange mixture of bemusement and mild panic blossoming through the bond - stronger now Dorian’s hand rested against his arm. “I’m sorry, Mater but I’ve spied some people I’ve been eager to introduce Fitzwilliam to. Would you excuse us?”

“It might be best,” Vanessah inclined her head, still that carefully crafted smile curling her lips. “If you keep the Inquisitor away from the wine for a time. He seems to have lost the ability to pace himself.”

Fitzwilliam laughed and it rose and fell like a bird with a broken wing. “Thank you for your concern, Magistra Pavus but I find myself more than capable of managing my own affairs.” Dorian’s hand on his arm pressed with more insistence and Fitzwilliam allowed himself to be tugged away. But not without one final parting comment, Fitzwilliam raising his mostly empty glass towards Vanessah in a toast. “I forgot to mention, your costume is lovely. Dorian tells me such fine illusionary magic is difficult but you do it with such flair. Such a shame they didn’t ask you to do the spellwork on the ballroom this evening.”

Dorian cursed beneath his breath and finally succeeded in towing Fitzwilliam away. With the heat from Dorian’s hand seeping past the glittering costume, Fitzwilliam sighed happily and went willingly. He’d missed his lover’s touch even in the short handful of moments that had kept them apart so far. He smiled, despite the tangled emotions that poured from Dorian as he lead Fitzwilliam away from his mother, away from the party enough to seclude themselves in a slightly quieter corner.

“As entertaining as it is,” Dorian began, head dipped to bring his lips close enough to whisper without being overheard. That ever-present thread of concern from Dorian that Fitzwilliam couldn’t seem to soothe, no matter how he tried, took some sting from the words huffed against the shell of his ear. “to watch you trade thinly veiled insults with my mother, I’m certain you’d agree the middle of a masquerade is probably not the best place to do so.”

Maker, but he was feeling petulant tonight. Perhaps – and he shuddered to think it – Vanessah was right. He’d slow down on the wine. If he was feeling the desire to lash out at Dorian of all people something needed to change. He could hear the worry in Dorian’s voice, see the concern in his eyes, feel his anxiety and confusion, but all he wanted to do was pull away from him and go somewhere _else._ “I suppose,” he said reluctantly, “baiting your  mother might be unwise. I’ll try to make nice.” Why did those words feel like bitterness on his lips. He would do anything for Dorian. Wouldn’t he?

He shook his head banishing the thoughts as he did so and trying on a smile. This one was genuine, unfurling as his eyes dipped to take Dorian’s costume in once more.  “You look incredible, by the way.”

The anxiety and confusion didn’t disappear but it did ease, enough that when Dorian smiled Fitzwilliam could feel the echo of his delight and amusement outshone any lingering concern. The low hum of approval and the slow burn of heat in Dorian’s gaze did wonders in letting Fitzwilliam push aside his foul mood - if only for a moment. “As do you,” Dorian murmured, all too pleased with himself. “Of course, I knew the moment the idea for the costumes came to me that we would. I’ve an eye for these things, after all.

“And I’m sure no part of you was appreciating the thought that I would come home in my … “night gear” to change into _this_ ,” he laughed gesturing at himself with the wineglass. “Quite the contrast. Very clever. I imagine you are all manner of pleased with yourself.” It was hard not to push closer to the mage, to bury his head in the crook of his neck and breath him in until the party faded entirely. Just the two of them now, at least. He let his fingers reach out and linger on Dorian’s sleeve. Anyone looking over would see his admiring the stitching or some other banality, but he could feel Dorian’s warmth. It helped clear his head.

“Perhaps the image of you shedding all that dark leather and suede and changing into something bright and shining did have _some_ appeal,” Dorian agreed, moustache twitching with his smug little smirk. Fitzwilliam wanted to kiss to that crooked quirk of lips. “Both for the lovely contrast and the thought of you shedding clothing in the first place.”

“Thinking of that often, are you,” Fitzwilliam asked, smirking. “I’ll admit, I’m having some thoughts in that vein myself…” he trailed off, leering at Dorian and feeling heat coil low in his stomach. “Are you absolutely sure we need to attend this function _all_ evening?” The smolder and regret in Dorian’s eyes answered for him and Fitzwilliam found himself sighing heavily. “Fine,” he pouted. “We’ll stay at this fabulous party, and look dashing, and I will be bored but,” he poked a finger into Dorian’s chest and twisted, rumpling the deceptively delicate fabric. “You owe me a private dance when we’re back home.”

“I agree to your terms,” Dorian purred, lifting Fitz’s hand and pressing his lips to knuckles in a brief brush. He felt the thrill of it, though even if anyone saw it would hardly set tongues wagging any more than they already were. It had more to do with receiving Dorian’s affection in a place where he was usually denied it than it did with the exhilaration of getting caught. And then, sadly, his warmth vanished and they turned back to the event.

Crystaline glass now nothing more than a prop with a few sips of red left in the bottom, Fitzwilliam began making his rounds. It was the usual milling of people who were important, and people who thought they were important, all trying to lord over one another. As much as he disliked these events he had to admit he was good at navigating them, moving about the room in a deliberate meander, searching out the best bits of gossip and plotting, dribbling his own into the mixture with a tone of practiced disinterest.

Nothing terribly interesting was happening at this event, though he did note Dorian had finally made his way to the youngest Vestinus. They were talking avidly, though quietly and a bit out of the way. Fitzwilliam was loathe to admit it, but he was moving a bit less gracefully than usual. The combination of the fight, the tavern, and the wine might have been too much after all. He mustered his considerable will power and sidled up near them, not actually joining their conversation, just hovering on the edges of it, looking bored.

“The...mishaps have decreased slightly since I heeded your warning.” Always so earnest, in posture and in speech was young Vel and Fitzwilliam - despite his increasingly foul mood - found it easy to be amused at how he swayed closer to Dorian with wide eyes too open for the world of politics. At least, without the guiding hand of those far better suited for easy smiles while wanting to strangle whomever they were listening to. Fitzwilliam snorted - Vel’s hero-worship was recognisable and, he thought with a decidedly lewd smirk on his face, the young Magister would welcome Dorian’s ‘guiding hand’ with great enthusiasm. Fitzwilliam shook his head, clearing away the wicked thoughts and tried to focus more on a conversation he wasn’t interested in - despite the discussion of information that might prove useful in the future.

“...without using any magic that I usually find more difficult to use.” Vel was saying, voice pitched low and for Dorian’s ears only. “And there have been whispers…”

“There are always whispers,” Dorian chuckled, sipping from his glass, but clearly drinking nothing. “But I take it you’ve been hearing more about others having similar problems?” Oh, Dorian was enjoying this. And who could blame him really? The Vestinus boy had a crush on Magister Pavus. Fitzwilliam let his lips tug up at the corner. Vel nodded and Dorian continued. “I have an… acquaintance arriving in the city soon. I’ll confer with her. Until then, pass the word to anyone you can trust. It didn’t come from me, naturally,” Dorian winked and Fitzwilliam rolled his eyes despite his amusement. “The fewer injuries that come of this issue the better.”

Vel bobbed his head in assent, paused for a moment and Fitzwilliam could almost see the thoughts organising themselves in the young Magister’s mind as he considered what he wanted to say. Good. At least, despite all his earnest enthusiasm and idealism he recognised the advantage in choosing what information to reveal and who to trust. Despite Dorian’s clear investment in the young man and his ideas, his policies and his politics, Vel would do well to learn information wasn’t to be freely given in places where many ears could hear. The small smile on his lips turned up at one corner, crooked and - Fitzwilliam was honest with himself, just a touch besotted - as he thought of what the elf would have to say about his thoughts. Some sly comment about how freely Fitzwilliam himself gave away information no doubt.

Fitzwilliam blinked, once again dragging his attention back to the conversation and away from the clouded, meandering nature of his own thoughts. Maker but it was getting harder to focus on anything.

“...heard him speaking to an associate. The problems are far reaching - not just limited to the city.” Vel was saying. “He’d not long return from Vyrantium and the same occurred there. Whispers of...the same kind we are hearing here.”

A sound of frustration muttered into a goblet. “Well, I suppose it was too much to ask, after all. Well done, Vel.” Dorian smiled at the boy, something tinged with pride. “I’ll be over for dinner again soon, yes?”

Their conversation over, Fitzwilliam closed the gap and slide up to Dorian. “Magister Pavus,” he purred, smiling warmly at Vel and affecting that lilting, half-drunk voice he often used at these events. “Are you leading this fine young man on?” He leaned forward, closer to Vel. “I have it on good authority the Magister is taken,” his voice came out in a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t be taken in by his many, _many_ charms.”

Vel’s smile was bashful and his flushed cheeks endearing and it took a great deal of willpower not to point both out for comment, though Fitzwilliam’s eyes were all too knowing if the young man’s slight cough was anything to go by. “Good evening, Inquisitor Trevelyan.” Vestinus offered politely, bobbing his head in a short bow and, surprisingly, meeting Fitzwilliam’s gaze steadily - despite his clear embarrassment. “I won’t take up anymore of Magister Pavus’ time if you require him.”

His smile shifted from its teasing to something more affectionate. “I’m afraid I do, Vel of house Vestinus,” he bowed his head slightly. “But I do hope you ask him to dinner again, he had such fun.” And then, just because it was fun and he wanted to, we winked at the boy and watched his cheeks flush red.

“Yes, well.” Vel was clearly flustered but there was something considering in his gaze as he regarded Fitzwilliam and for all his scattered thoughts, he couldn’t think what it was that could have inspired that look on the young man’s face.

“We will arrange dinner soon, Vel.” Dorian said, smooth voice belied by his hurried movements as he hooked his arm through Fitzwilliam’s and did nothing short of _tow_ him away from his new ally. “I think the Inquisitor could do with some air.”

Fitzwilliam blinked, allowing Dorian to lead him away with a great measure of confusion as to why they were in such a hurry. “Eager to take me away from prying eyes, Serah?” he purred, pressing closer enough to feel the heat of their bodies as one continuous line from shoulder to hip.

“Keeping you from revealing yourself.” Dorian’s voice pitched low with frustration and concern. “Vel knows your voice and there was something in the manner he was studying you that looked far too much like recognition for my liking. How much have you had to drink to not to notice that?”

“He knows the assassin’s voice,” Fitzwilliam sighed, rolling his eyes again. “And I haven’t had _that_ much to drink that I’d miss being made.” He tore his arm out of Dorian’s grasp. “I don’t need you to manage me, Dorian.” He sighed, aggitated and feeling the warmth of the drink despite how little he had consumed. “I”m going to mingle. You… do whatever it is you do.”

He drained the last gulp of wine from his glass as he walked away. Things were going a bit fuzzy, after all. What he wouldn’t give for a cool glass of water. The hum of conversation turned into a low buzz as he continued his walk, not really focusing on anything as it all began to blur together. He dared a hazy glance at his lover, who looked after his departure with confused eyes, the muddled bond flooded with too many emotions to pick out. Fitzwilliam shrugged, a careless gesture that had concern and hurt drown out the rest for the barest moment, before he turned a made for the closest window so he could look out into the night. He wanted to cast his eyes on something other than this blighted party.

 

******

 

Dorian watched Fitzwilliam’s retreat with a mixture of emotions, eyes drawn to the less than graceful stagger as he wound his way through the crowd towards the large, open windows running the entire length of one side of the ballroom. No matter what his lover said, there was something concerning in how he swayed about in a manner Dorian could tell was not an act, not part of the disguise he wore along with his costume. Fitzwilliam was drunk. If not for his lack of grace, the tell was in his shifting behaviour - from clear irritation and belligerence to an unrestrained sensuality that lent far more intent and heat behind his flirting than Fitzwilliam usually displayed where eyes could see. He was losing control in a place where sharks circled, waiting for a single drop of blood to begin their feeding frenzy and Fitzwilliam’s actions were about to provide the food. What in Andraste’s name had driven his lover to drink enough to throw caution to the wind like this? Dorian didn’t want to think that Fitzwilliam was lying about how much he’d consumed that evening but what else could he do? Words did not mirror actions and left Dorian completely adrift as to what to make of Fitzwilliam’s entire behaviour so far - what to _do_ about it.

The bond was a fuzzy jumble of half formed intentions and emotion - that alone was enough to have Dorian heading towards the slave’s entrance to the ballroom in search of some water. He’d disguise it in a wine flute if he needed to but Fitzwilliam need to partake of something non-alcoholic before he did something that neither of them could deal with.

He ducked inside the low door, ready to make a hasty journey down the stairs to the lower kitchens and fetch the drink himself, when he heard whispering. It wasn’t uncommon for the slaves to talk with one another, especially at big events like this where several of the great houses would bring their slaves together to attend the party, but this went beyond the usual “how is so and so” and “any good gossip” -- there was something conspiratorial about the hush of their voices. So, Dorian halted in his steps and waited, listening as they spoke.

“Three Magisters from three different houses have mentioned issues with their magic.” A tiny thing with long dark hair said, Dorian barely able to hear her whispered words. “Another two families are making plans to visit the lower marketplace for more ‘assistants’ for their households.”

The boy, head bent close to keep his words as quiet as possible scoffed - a defiance in the sharp, slant of his mouth very rarely seen in household slaves allowed anywhere near an event such as this. Dorian had seen them beaten for expressions even a fraction of what the young elvhen lad displayed. “Assistants.” he practically snarled. “Call them what he says we should. Sacrifices.”

Dorian’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. This...what _was_ this?

“House Gratian has purchased three new slaves in the last fortnight. Not long after the whispers began. I’ve managed to speak to Ahven who has passed word to Aora. She will take the information we gather here tonight to Lethanavir when she next speaks to him.”

“And I will meet with him at the week’s end with the shipping manifest I stole from Cadius’ desk.”

“You don’t call them Master or Mistress anymore.” A small smile. “Lethanavir would be proud.”

Sacrifices? Stealing shipping manifests? Passing information?

All at once Dorian was back in time. The Winter Palace and the assassination attempt. The intricate network of Briala’s elves… her spies. And here it was again, elves risking life and limb, in the most literal sense, to pass information from the empire’s most influential families to _Lethanavir_ \-- whomever that was. He was torn between waiting to hear more, and fleeing before he was discovered. But, if he was honest, there was little chance Dorian Pavus was going to give up any chance to gather more knowledge.

“The others will leave what they have gathered at the drop to be collected.” The young lad was saying to his fellow slave? Spy? Dorian wasn’t certain he could call them simply one or the other.  “Has anyone managed to get close enough to Pavus to gain anything?”

“Lethanavir said to be wary of the younger Pavus.” She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder and Dorian shrunk deeper into shadows of the doorway, certain for a moment he’d been discovered. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was clear she was simply nervous. “To listen if we got close enough to but to otherwise stay away.”

“I don’t understand.” He was shifting, agitated. “If there’s anyone we should be keeping our eyes on it’s Pavus and his Inquisitor. Especially since those in the household still follow with blind obedience to their Master and Mistress.”

A decidedly sly smile curled on the young woman’s lips and all at once Dorian felt a shiver of unease shudder down his spine. “Don’t worry about the Pavus’. Lethanavir is looking after them personally.”

Now he wasn’t sure staying to hear more was the right choice. The knowledge he had gained was going to eat at him, keep him up at night, and drive him to find out anything he could about whomever this Lethanavir was. This unknown danger who was turning the slaves of Tevinter into a network of spies.

He could not longer remain hidden in the shadows of the doorway, too much already in his mind with his concern for Fitzwilliam to add more. Later, when all was well and they were home, Dorian could think on this Lethanavir and the new threat he posed. Straightening, he strode out of his shadows and said simply. “I require water.”

To their credit, they barely jumped - and that itself was concerning - before the young woman inclined her head in response, refusing to meet Dorian’s gaze just as a good slave was always trained to do. “Right away, Master Pavus.” She scurried off into the kitchen, leaving the young man behind.

“Is there anything else you require?” He asked, eyes cast to the floor and so different from the spitfire of an elf Dorian had just witnessed.

“No, thank you… what is your name?” Dorian asked, trying to find some balance between imposing master and sympathetic activist.

“Lehel,” the slave said softly.

“Thank you, Lehel,” Dorian said, inclining his head slightly. “I merely require some water. There is a bit too much imbibing going on this evening.”

The slip of a girl was back faster than he could hardly believe, with a silver goblet filled with water. He smiled at her cleverness. “And your name?” he asked.

She blinked up in shock a few times before she remembered to cast her gaze to the floor and answering, “Rill.”

“Thank you, Rill,” he said warmly.

“If you don’t need us for anything else…”

“No, go about your work. I’ll not keep you any longer.” Dorian could hardly reconcile the differences between the two whispering elves from before - with determination and fire in their eyes and small frames - to the two timid, hesitant creatures before him. The dissonance made him more than a little uncomfortable and he found himself relieved when they, with two low bows and quick feet, disappeared into the kitchen and returned to their duties.

He moved back through the low doorway and into the ballroom, eyes sweeping for Fitzwilliam, praying he hadn’t been gone long enough for him to get into more trouble. Blessedly, his lover was where he had left him, looking out the window into the dark of the city at night. Dorian strode over and offered him the goblet. “Here,” he said softly as he exchanged the crystal for the silver. “You’ll feel better.”

The bond was still fuzzy, evidence of Fitzwilliam’s compromised state, but he took the goblet with a spike of guilt and gratefulness. “I’m not _trying_ to manage you,” Dorian said in a low voice that had to replace the touches he longed to use. “I’m just worried.” But Fitzwilliam wouldn’t look at him, just stared out the window and sipped from his silver and looked sad and lost. It broke his heart.

“I’m going to get back to the party,” he sighed, once more fighting the urge to run his fingers through his hair. “I’ll finish the rest of my business as quickly as possible, I promise. So we can go home.” He managed and encouraging little smile but all he pulled for Fitz was a nod. Aching, he went back to making the rounds. Suddenly he was very ready for this night to be over.

 

*****

 

How many more of these people was he going to have to talk to? It seemed every time he managed to wriggle free of one, another caught him in a snare. It had now been much too long since he had left Fitzwilliam by the window. He needed to get him back to manor. He didn’t care what the Inquisitor said, he knew something wasn’t right… hadn’t _been_ right for a while.

And honestly, how was he supposed to focus on votes and favor buying when he had stumbled upon a ring of spies? That was just asking too much. This was boring. He wanted to start researching, gathering information, ferreting out this new threat. But, instead, he kept his expression smoothed, almost bored, and gave the very important people what they wanted.

“So,” Dorain drawled, gesturing with his wine, “I suppose I could agree to back your vote in the upcoming senate meeting.” The magister across from him looked pleased. And while that was all well and good he wasn’t entirely thrilled about the vote. It wasn’t going to hurt anyone really, it was just asinine. As if they needed more taxes on silk, really. It would, however, be good to be owed a favor by house Sisenna, however.

He was just turning away and making his excuses when he heard Fitzwilliam’s voice cutting through the haze of politicking. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he was spitting in a low growl. Dorian crossed the few steps between them, the bond positively vibrating with rage. He put his hand on Fitz’s shoulder and tried to sooth him. He didn’t even so much as look toward his arrival.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, attempting to infuse some mirth into the situation. “Cadius,” he nodded to the magister Fitzwilliam was glaring and snorting at like an angry bull.

“This piece of filth,” Fitzwilliam growled, “struck that servant for spilling a drink. On the _tray_ .” Dorian looked to the side to see an elf with a red mark on her cheek, eyes cast to the floor. It took effort to still his expression, eyes wanting to widen in recognition at the sight one of the slaves he’d eavesdropped upon earlier. “Not even on _him_ mind you, that would be vile enough. Just on the tray. He struck her and threatened to have her sent to be an assistant.”

Dorian felt sick. They knew what that meant. Everyone knew, though they pretended not to -- the man had threatened to have her sent to be used for blood magic for spilling a bit of liquor.

“She’s a _slave_ ,” Cadius spat. “That drink was worth more than she is. And she wasted it.” Fitzwilliam’s hand was fisted in the magister’s coat before Dorian could move to stop him.

“Inquisitor,” Dorian grit though his teeth. “Don’t you think now is hardly the time for this.” The people around them were starting to pay attention. What was wrong with him? He watched as Fitzwilliam’s eyes focused and unfocused.

“If you touch her or any servant at this party again,” he mumbled, dropping his voice low and leaning in so only the very closeby could hear. “If I get any word of her going missing, any harm befalling her or any slave you can claim even a tenuous connection to, I’ll find you and end you.”

Dorian grabbed his wrist and tried to pull the magister free. It was not easy work. Fitzwilliam had a deathgrip on the man, a wicked flash of white teeth appearing when he saw the _fear_ in Cadius’ eyes. “Fitzwilliam, _enough_ ,” Dorian demanded, pulling harder. He released the man with a bit of a shove, tuned on his heel, and stormed from the ballroom.

Behind him, Dorian could hear his mother already setting things to rights despite the fact that this wasn’t her party. He’d have to thank her. Later. Right now he had to follow Fitzwilliam before he got into any more trouble. He left the room as calmly as he could manage. After all, it would not do to make any more of a scene. If needs be he could rush around the halls until he caught up with his quarry.

It didn’t take much. Fitzwilliam was pacing to and fro just outside the main doors. Dorian grabbed him by the elbow and began dragging him along the hall. “We’re going home,” he said softly.

The walk was brisk and silent. Fitzwilliam’s emotions through the bond flitted between livid and ashamed as they made their way back to the manor. Once the door had swung closed behind them and they were safely within their sitting room Dorian made to confront his lover, spinning only to find what appeared to be a very drunk Inquisitor slowly, and awkwardly, pulling off every piece of his costume. To his credit, he did seem to be trying to remove it without damaging anything, however his moments were less than graceful -- Void, they were less than coordinated. His fingers kept slipping dumbly until, finally, he turned to look at Dorian with those blue eyes, all softness and confusion and longing.

“Help?” he whimpered, before he accidentally breathed in a mouthful of feathers and began sputtering on them.

“Oh Amatus,” Dorian sighed, the pitiful sight before him doing a great deal to cool his ire with Fitzwilliam’s abysmal behaviour that evening. It did nothing to ease the concern. Three large strides and he was at his lover’s side and beginning the process of untangling cloth and feather from where they’d seemingly trapped Fitzwilliam inside. “You’re in a state, aren’t you?”

“You’re in a state,” Fitzwilliam drawled, attempting something that might have been a leer had it not been ruined by a series of short sneezes caused by the down tickling his nose. Dorian sighed and continued his efforts, managing to liberate his lover from the mask and his jacket before Fitzwilliam started pawing at him in earnest.

“Stand still.” Capturing Fitzwilliam’s hands was a far easier task than it should have been - all of those lightning quick reflexes turned fumbling and awkward under the effects of however many glasses of wine Fitzwilliam managed to throw back before Dorian had to drag him home. As soon as he’d released wandering hands, however, they were pawing at Dorian once more and doing their best to remove the twin to Fitzwilliam’s own mask. With just as much success as he’d had with his own, all those drink-dumb fingers managed was to get in the way, Dorian huffing as he tried to divest Fitzwilliam of his clothes and fend off greedy, groping but ultimately graceless hands. “Do you want to be free of your clothing or not?” Dorian finally snapped, some of his frustration leaking past the concern in his tone.

Fitzwilliam wilted under the harshness of his tone, hands dropping to his sides limply. Dorian supposed he should have felt poorly about it, and he did a bit, but mostly he was glad to be able to accomplish the goal of removing the majority of the offending articles. When he had set them aside, and pulled off his own mask, Dorian tucked a finger under Fitzwilliam’s chin, lifting it until those sad eyes met his own. “Now,” he sighed softly, pressing a light kiss to the corner of Fitz’s mouth. “Exactly how much did you have to drink? How much of a hangover should I expect tomorrow.”

Earnest, open eyes looked up at him innocently.”I promise,” he slurred, “I only had a couple of glasses.”

Fitzwilliam was keeping many secrets at the moment, apparently for Dorian’s benefit, but he’d never outright lied to his face about anything when asked a direct question. Even with all evidence to the contrary, Dorian still couldn’t shake that indomitable faith that his lover was telling him the truth. That he would continue to tell him the truth - as much as he could while keeping to his ‘no assassin talk’ rule - when Dorian asked it of him. “This does not seem like only a couple of glasses, Amatus.” He hesitated, knowing he could ask but might not get a sufficient answer. Most probably _wouldn’t._ And yet, Dorian found himself unable to ignore the prickling at the back of his mind that events before the ball might have lead to Fitzwilliam’s current state. “And before the Ball?” He rested a palm against Fitzwilliam’s cheek, thumb stroking over the two flushed pink of his cheeks, and examining those wide eyes. The pupils were round black disks ringed with blue, focus hazy. His breath caught at the sight - a simulacrum of lust that felt...off...to someone who knew what true desire looked like in his Fitzwilliam’s gaze. He needed more information. “A stop at the tavern perhaps? Have you eaten anything since you left today?”

Those hands returned to their efforts, fumbling with bright fasteners. “I did stop at the tavern, but it was only for a little while. I don’t… remember… when I ate.” His voice became even more unfocused, his thoughts seeming to meander about Dorian’s obstacles, determined to get him out of his clothing.  “I’m sorry,” he purred, leaning forward to press sloppy kisses to the exposed curve of Dorian’s neck. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Dorian grabbed the hands and tugged them away only after they’d managed to get the top of his jacket open. Fitzwilliam winced, his marked hand flinching in Dorian’s grip. The lips, however, were a little more difficult to dissuade.

Dorian put his hands on his lover’s shoulders and shuddered for the sacrifice he was about to make. “You know,” he said slowly, “I think there’s a bit of fruit and cheese left over from my meal today. Stay here.”

A whimper trailed after him as he retrieved the tray. A moment later he was placing it beside Fitzwilliam who, as Dorian suspected, dug into it with gusto. This fingertips were soon stained by the cherries and berries, little splatters of juice dotting the sparkling white costume like blood. Ah well, it was only cloth, and now Fitzwilliam was suitably distracted -- he set about examining him. No matter what the Inquisitor said, he knew something was wrong.  

He cast his eyes over Fitzwilliam’s body, what he could see at least with the barrier of cloth between his eyes and skin. Other than the flushed cheeks, the dilated pupils and the ravenous hunger - all which could be explained away by too much drink and too little food - Fitzwilliam wasn’t showing any outward signs of harm that Dorian could see with eyes alone. His examination progressed to gentle but firm touches, not enough - Dorian hoped - to pull Fitzwilliam’s attention away from the food. He kept the sweep of his hands to a professional touch, distance required to search for anything to explain his lover’s current state even though his body still hummed with the want to touch Fitzwilliam. Happily eating away, Fitzwilliam still leant - almost kittenish - into Dorian’s hands and the flicker off those wide eyes held more than a little heat as they tried to capture Dorian’s gaze. As soon as his hands were free again, they’d be reaching for Dorian and he’d be dodging them once more to try and get to the bottom of what was going on. Another distraction then.

“Tell me about your evening, Amatus.” He injected as much levity and mild curiosity in his voice as he could manage. “About your handsome elf.”

“We freed a bunch of slaves,” Fitzwilliam said excitedly through a mouth full of food. “Children! They were very cute. We should have some. Children, not slaves.”

A dark brow quirked at that. “Ah yes, the return of your fascination with our physically impossible love children,” he drawled. “It sounds like an exciting night. Was there much fighting?” It seemed wiser to steer back toward the pertinent information, even if that comment had a lot of potential for teasing. He’d pocket it for later.

Mouth busy with chewing, Fitz nodded vigorously until he could swallow. “There were blood mages, and warriors, and rogues, and secret reinforcements. F-the elf,” Fitzwilliam stammered, “was very fast, but he got caught when I had to run from a blonde rogue -- his daggers were _sharp_. But I got back in time to help the elf!”

Dorian latched onto that last piece of information, hands still against Fitzwilliam’s shoulder. “His daggers were sharp?” Voice even, tone mild - Dorian couldn’t afford for Fitzwilliam to run off on another tangent or lose the thread of the conversation entirely in favour of trying to rid Dorian of his clothes once again. _This_ , he thought furiously, _is why all this secrecy is_ dangerous _._ “How sharp were they?”

Finally, slowing down, eating food at a regular speed and with a bit more manners, Fitzwilliam shrugged. “Dull daggers hurt a lot more. He must have taken good care of them.” Dorian searched for wounds again but only found the splatter of fruit juice.

“Fitz,” Dorian said slowly. “Did you drink an elfroot potion?”

Ruffled cinnamon hair fluttered as he shook his head. “Nope, you said not to unless the alternative is dying. It was just a scratch.”

A low sound of sheer frustration slipped past Dorian’s lips, his concern fuelled anger getting the better of him. “And just how did you know how sharp his daggers were, Fitzwilliam? You seem remarkably unscathed for someone who’s had intimate understanding of another man’s daggers.”

Fitzwilliam held up a single white-gloved hand and turned the palm to face Dorian. He popped one last berry into his mouth and then sighed contentedly. “It was just my palm,” he said, listing to the side a little. “I bandaged it. It was hardly bleeding.”

Gaze narrowing on the now revealed palm, Dorian realised the growing stain on once pristine, white gloves belonged to more than berry juice. Snatching up Fitzwilliam’s hand, fingers looped about his wrist in a firm grip to keep it still, Dorian wasted no time in pulling the white cloth of the glove free. Any other time the wince and the whimper spilling past Fitzwilliam’s lips would draw him up short, gentle his hands and inspire soothing words cooed against his lover’s skin. Now there was only urgency and anger, Dorian unsure which fueled his movement more as he flung the bloodstained glove aside and unwound the bandage.

What he saw had the breath rushing from his lungs just as surely as if Fitzwilliam had fisted that hand and punched him with it. The cut _was_ small and only sluggishly bleeding. Alone, the injury would seem innocuous enough to an untrained eye and Fitzwilliam’s dismissal of it wasn’t entirely foolhardy. At the time, Dorian reasoned, it wouldn’t have looked like this and for a lover unconcerned with telling Dorian about every little nick or scratch - believing himself invincible when wearing his assassin garb and disappearing into the night - hardly worth consideration. But now...Dorian’s heartbeat thundered painfully inside his chest, the echo off it rattling in his skull. That tiny wound was yellowed with rapid infection, the edge blackened with immediate onset necrosis. _Poison._

“You should have told me about this.” Dorian grit out through clenched teeth, panic swelling as he took in the sight of the rapidly darkening flesh about the small wound. This was beyond him - he couldn’t _fix this_ . “You should have _told me,_ Fitzwilliam _._ ”

His lover listed to the side again, only this time he didn’t catch himself. He stumbled, falling back on the couch. “Doe,” he managed in a pained whimper. “I don’t feel well.” _Shit._ Everything in him wanted to stay and care for Fitzwilliam, and he might have, had the bond not suddenly gone fuzzy. This close, with Fitz awake, it should have been clear as a bell, and echo to his own, but was… muffled. The way it would get when one of them fell asleep.

Dorian ducked his head, dropping a kiss on Fitzwilliam’s brow, only to find it heated. Fever. “Shit.” He straightened torn between action and inaction. He wanted to save the man he loved but if he was going to do that he had to put his pride aside. This was beyond him. “I love you,” he said gruffly. “Don’t you fucking die, Fitzwilliam.”

He turned on his heel and _ran_. It was time to get his mother.

 

*****

 

Her smile felt brittle by the time the last of those close enough to hear Fitzwilliam’s minor tirade had been fed the correct lines, seen the required smile and listened to the patently false laugh of amused affection. Oh to find a moment alone where smiles could fade and she could reassemble the illusion into something that felt less reminiscent of the incompetent display decorating the ballroom that evening. Vanessah inclined her head as yet another sycophantic idiot made a thinly veiled comment about The Inquisitor. Obviously he was working far too hard to truly enjoy all the evening had to offer and oh they hoped he slept well enough to feel refreshed in the morning. She wanted to strangle the next person who spoke to her but the smile never wavered, the smooth cadence of her tone never faltered. Fifteen more minutes and she would locate Halward in whatever corner he’d scurried off to and make their exits. There were words she needed to have with their son about his bedmate and what a mess his kind of behaviour had left in it’s wake.

It was fortuitous that she’d moved to the edges of the room, pretending to seek out her husband whenever anyone inquired, but truly just tired of milling about in the thick, because she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. A familiar figure, so known to her that she didn’t even need to look at his face, approached her from the side. She had to admit, she was not best-pleased with her son.

When he was a step away she turned to greet him, a cool smile already on her lips, a cutting remark on her tongue, ready to reprimand him for the extra work she had had to do, when she saw his face. He looked terrified. Frightened, and lost and desperate. She didn’t wait for him to come to a stop. She grabbed him by the elbow of his jacket and marched them from the room. Halward was on his own.

Once they were cleared of the room, doors closed and Dorian trembling under her touch, she urged them onward as swiftly as they could go. “Whatever has happened,” she promised, “whatever went wrong, we will _fix_ it, Dorian.” She gave his arm a little squeeze and left no room for argument. “Spare whatever breath you have left to tell me what happened.”

The journey was made brief by virtue of them practically running back to the manor. Dorian had been deliberately vague. Oh there was an obsessive amount of detail about the wound, the poison, how long it had been in the Inquisitor’s system, anything that might be pertinent to treatment. But he dodged her every attempt at discovering _how_ the simpering troublemaker had managed such a wound.

Heavy doors banged open as they flew through them and into the sitting room. She could see Trevelyan collapsed on the couch and moved toward him. He wasn’t unconscious, not strictly, but his eyes were dilated and staring off into nothing. His breathing was labored, and his muscles seemed to be seizing. No tremors, yet, but everything was tight, rigid. She knelt beside him.

“Without knowing what the poison was,” Vanessah lifted the wounded hand, cradling it in both of her own as she took in every detail of the wound. “We cannot assist the magic through non-magical means. I will need to leech the toxin from his body before we can use any form of poultice or potion to begin to heal what has been damaged already.” She lifted her gaze, sympathy for her son if not for his lover in the curve of her gentle smile. “Gather everything you will need, Dorian, to do your work and I will do mine. We _will_ save him.”

Dorian ran off to their bedroom and Vanessah set to work. They’d have to move him to the bed soon, but not yet. If they lay him down right now it would easy the path of the poison to his heart, drastically narrowing the window they had to remove enough of it to save him. So she closed her eyes, and called on her magic.

Healing magic and illusion magic had a lot more overlap than most people thought. The first step, especially, was essentially the same -- reach out with your magic and find what already exists. With illusions this meant taking stock of the lighting, what particles were in the air, if there was a breeze, and so on. With healing it was searching out what should be there, what isn’t there, and what shouldn’t be there. Depending on the poison with which the Inquisitor had been inflicted those things would vary wildly. She closed her eyes and opened her senses to the process.

She hissed when she saw what was happening. The toxin had all but stopped the bleeding, which was bad. Very bad. It kept the wound from being one of too much concern but bleeding would also have allowed his body an outlet for the poison, keeping it from his heart for far longer. Because the capillaries were essentially cauterized by the toxin no healing could take place there. Assisted by another attribute of the poison, the flesh had begun to decay. She couldn’t heal that, it would have to be cut away. There was, at least, the hum of energy around the wound that indicated the body was _trying_ to heal it. Useless, just now, but vital for later.

Stock taken, Vanessah set about stalking down the toxin, following through his body to its farthest reaches. It took a long time to get to the end, it was so dispersed already, that when she arrived it was much nearer to his heart than made her comfortable. There was no time to do this delicately. She took a deep breath, wrapped her magic about the poison, and with steel will and considerable strength, she started wresting it for control.

Perspiration dripped down her brow by the time she had leeched enough of the toxin to stop its spread. There would be more to do, more to take from the Inquisitor’s body before she would be sure he would survive, but for now she could take a rest. She blinked her eyes open, the back of her hand sweeping sweat and hair from her face, and looked up to find her son looking down on them, face twisted with half a dozen kinds of worry. She managed a watery smile.

“Doiran,” she said only to find her voice rough with exertion. “Take the inquisitor to bed. Strip him and begin cleaning his hand.” Hope lept into his eyes and it hurt her. “There’s still poison, but no immediate danger.” She struggled to stand and Dorian was at her side in a shot, a hand on her elbow and the small of her back, helping her up. “I think I’ll steal a bit of clothing, my dragon,” she smiled, patting his cheek. “This costume is… burdensome.”

She waited for her son’s nod before dismissing herself to his bedchamber. She didn’t care, really, what she wore, as she stripped out of the costume, as long as it weighed less than this. Heavy as it was she didn’t dare drape it over the privacy screen so she left it puddled on the floor, listening as Dorian carried Trevelyan in and settled him on the bed. She pulled a pair of trousers and a shirt from the wardrobe, sliding them on without care before moving to the bed.

As good a healer as any non-mage, her son had cleaned the wound thoroughly. The Inquisitor, now shirtless and tucked into the bed, had a hand free of puss. “I’ll have to cut away the rot,” Dorian said. HIs voice was tight and her heart ached for him. It only bolstered the anger she had for his lover. “Best do it when you’re done, though,” he continued. “Even if you have nothing left to heal the wound. I’ll do my best and then the medicines will have to complete the work.”

Lips lifted in an approving smile, Vanessah patted her son on the shoulder. “Wise,” she said. “Now, bring me a chair and I’ll see about the rest. And extra blankets on him. Let’s see if we can’t get the fever to break.”

Time passed in a blur of _doing_ . She couldn’t spare focus to catalog the goings on around her. She remembered only the task and breaks from the task -- and the broken whimper that pierced the air when her son had to cut into his bedfellow’s hand. Still, she had enough to rid him of the poison, and _mostly_ heal the new wound. It meant he’d be healing for weeks instead of months and without losing and of the muscle mass of his palm. It had been a close thing and if she’d had the energy left she would be _writhing_ with the heat of her anger.

As it was she was exhausted, ready to seek out her own bed and sleep for days. But she couldn’t, not yet. Not until the Inquisitor woke and she had words with him. That much, at least, she had strength enough for. So she sat, and sipped the tea her son had brought her, and waited for the blighted Inquisitor to rouse.

 

******

 

Awareness came with the feel of a cool, slightly damp touch to his forehead and the soft sounds of breathing. Fitzwilliam sighed softly, that touch soothing and wonderful against skin that felt too flushed, too clammy to be at all comfortable. Prying his eyes open took effort, the lids heavy and stubborn in their refusal to acquiesce to Fitzwilliam desire for some sense of where he was. What had happened? The last he remembered was the room spinning, his stomach rolling and the plush cushions of the couch against sweat damp skin. Now there was that gentle touch and, he realised as he shifted slightly, the tangle of sheets around the lower half of his body.

“Wha…?” He managed, throat thick and hoarse. He coughed and suddenly there was the rim of a glass pressed to his lips.

“Just a sip.” Dorian. Fitzwilliam resisted the urge to gulp greedily and did as instructed. The water was chilled and blessed relief against the scratch of his dry throat. He whimpered out his protest when the glass was pulled away, Dorian offering a soothing sound in apology as that cool touch returned to his forehead. A damp cloth, Fitzwilliam realised, after a moment.

“What happened?” The words finally made their way past lips, his question going unanswered as the cloth was removed from his forehead. “Doe?”

“I’ll change this water.” Dorian’s voice was strangled, clipped tones bit out and more so than before Fitzwilliam did his best to pry his eyes open to determined the source of his lover’s distress.

“Do stop shifting about.” Vanessah’s calm voice reprimanded and Fitzwilliam stilled immediately but did not stop the struggle to open his eyes. “Dorian will return when he is ready. For the moment, lay still.”

Fitzwilliam sought out Dorian through the bond, wincing when he met a tangled ball of emotion he couldn’t - especially with his mind still hazed with sleep and lingering pain - begin to decipher. And then, with sudden clarity, Fitzwilliam remembered. He recalled waking earlier, when the fever first broken and he managed to fight off the last remaining vestiges of poison to drag himself into awareness. Remembered the panic in Dorian’s beautiful eyes replaced for one moment with a look of sheer relief before something shuttered in his gaze and he’d stepped aside at his mother’s request.

Reaching out, Fitzwilliam sent his apology along the the thread of the bond in one ache of longing and regret.  Like a door slamming in his face, Dorian shoved Fitzwilliam’s presence away and the sudden force of Dorian’s dismissal pulled a whimper from his lips.

“Are you in pain?”

“Some.” He needed to open his eyes, needed to emerge from this fog and stay awake long enough this time to put things to right. With a final concerted effort, Fitzwilliam pried open his eyes and tried to bring the room into focus. Their bedroom, their bed and Vanessah sitting at his side and reaching for his hand. “Not much?” Fitzwilliam wasn’t certain what pain there was supposed to be. “I...don’t remember how much there was before.”

“Do you remember what happened? You’ve been poisoned.” Vanessah didn’t wait for his answer. “You fainted and Dorian came to fetch me since you’d been disinclined to tell him you’d been injured and the poison had progressed further than he was equipped to deal with alone. Do you remember this?”

“Yes.” Fitzwilliam mumbled miserably. The second time waking was no easier than the first.

There was nothing motherly in the way Vanessah cradled his hand in her own, in the soft touch as she examined the now healing cut on his palm. Not now, not for him. It was a healer taking final stock of her patient before retiring for the night, making certain the magic had done it’s job - professional pride and nothing more. Fitzwilliam stared down at the top of her dark head, those disheveled, silver streaks wisping at her temples the only signs remaining of the efforts she’d undertaken earlier. He’d not even seen her leave to freshen up, too distracted with staying awake. Too lost to watching Dorian’s empty stare disguise the tumultuous tumble of emotion coursing through the bond - so strong Fitzwilliam’s head ached with more than the lingering pain from the poison. A harsh dissonance had vibrated over that strung tight thread. Dorian’s distance had not gone unnoticed, Fitzwilliam eyes pleading for forgiveness, his heart screaming it through the bond and receiving too many emotions all once to decipher as Dorian stayed on the other side of the bedroom.  Fitzwilliam had not long stayed conscious after that, falling into darkness with the image of Dorian’s blank gaze imprinted on his mind.

As Vanessah busied herself with her final inspections, Fitzwilliam latched onto Dorian’s presence once more in desperation - a man stumbling about in the dark denied light to guide his way. Dorian didn’t push him away this time and his presence grew nearer. Fitzwilliam knew, without any hesitation, that maelstrom of feeling would soon give birth to words Dorian had been keeping inside for too long now. And Fitzwilliam promised himself he would listen. This time he would.

“The wound is healing.” Vanessah broke the silence in measured, even tones. Placing his hand against the sheets, she moved away to gather the array of bandages and jars Dorian had left behind in his haste to vacate the room. “The threat from the poison is over. You’ll be confined to bed for a time to regain strength.”

“Thank you, Magistra Pavus.” Humbled by her actions to save him, Fitzwilliam could not chase the meekness from his voice.

Silence was his only response. Once again judged and found sorely lacking, Fitzwilliam received no further attention from the Pavus matriarch. Vanessah didn’t look towards the bed again as she glided across the room towards the bedroom door. Shame blossomed hot across his cheeks, knowing this time he had earned her eternal disappointment. Fitzwilliam dropped his gaze to the bed, worrying at invisible threads while he lost himself in the chaos of his own thoughts. So lost, he startled when Vanessah’s voice once again broke the silence.

“Dorian would not tell me how you came to have such a wound on your person.” Fitzwilliam raised his gaze only enough to be pinned in place by the cold ice of Vanessah’s stare. “Even when the knowledge could assist in saving your life he would not tell. I do not know if it was because he too lacked the knowledge or if you’ve sworn him so desperately to secrecy he would lose himself to terror rather than betray your confidence.”

“I…”

“You keep a great many secrets, Inquisitor.” Her voice allowed for no interruption, the restrained fury contained in the sharp line of her mouth cutting Fitzwilliam’s words off so thoroughly he felt the sound die in his throat. “I will offer this warning only once. If those secrets do any further harm to my son, his love for you will no longer protect you.”

She did not wait for a response, dismissing Fitzwilliam with a single glance and the sight of her turned back as she strode out the door. He dropped his head into his hands, misery written in even line of his hunched shoulders as Vanessah words echoed in his head over and over.

“Mater left, I see.”

Fitzwilliam’s head snapped up, hands falling to his lap as he gazed up at the sight of his lover. Dorian looked a picture of exhaustion. Hair a disheveled mess, clothing a crumpled, wrinkled mockery of the once pristine costume and with the heavy, dark bruising about his eyes that came from lack of sleep. Heart an ache he couldn’t rub from his chest, Fitzwilliam reached up to try and banish it all the same. Dorian’s eyes tracked the motion but he lingered by the doorway no matter how Fitzwilliam begged with his eyes for him to draw closer.

“Doe, I…”

A single hand halted his words, just as effectively as Vanessah’s cold voice. Dorian’s raised palm asked for silence and Fitzwilliam helpless to deny him - not after tonight - gave it.

“Not yet, Fitzwilliam.” Dorian sounded just as exhausted as he looked, the smooth honey of his voice a raspy gravel that only added to Fitzwilliam’s rising guilt. “I need to be angry with you and if you speak to me right now it’ll flee in seconds through sheer relief to hear your voice.”

Lips closed with something that was almost relief. Nothing he said would make up for this. So, instead, he sat silently and felt the roil of emotions as Dorian attempted to sort them enough to decide where the tirade would begin. Given how long this task was taking, it seemed there were a great many things he wanted to say.

In all honesty, Fitzwilliam didn’t remember much of what had transpired. He recalled arriving at the room, eating some food, talking with Dorian. Then he felt sick and Dorian left. He didn’t recall him coming back, with his mother in tow, invading their quarters. Didn’t remember being moved to the bed, even. After Dorian’s abrupt departure the next thing he could recall was an exhausted looking Vanessah giving way for Dorian to set about slathering his palm with poultice. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he could guess -- something had gone wrong on the mission tonight. The blade, that superficial cut… there was poison. And because he had gone out after, arriving back at the manor late enough that he had to ready alone, no one knew there was so much as a chance of danger.

Dorian had almost watched him die. He deserved whatever was about to come out of his lover’s, tightly drawn lips.

“Tonight,” The silence broke with a soft voice and still Fitzwilliam flinched like it had shattered with a shout. Dorian still hadn’t moved from where he haunted the doorway. “You almost died. _Would_ have died had it not been for Mater. I had to watch you dying, literally powerless to stop you, because of a seemingly insignificant cut on your hand you failed to pay due attention to.”

“I-” his voice was so soft. Not weak… ashamed. “I didn’t know.” It was a poor answer, not nearly enough, and he knew Dorian wouldn’t let him get away with it. Still, he didn’t know what else he could offer. Apologies were not going to suffice. Nothing would.

“Didn’t know or didn’t care?” Still Dorian refused to draw closer and Fitzwilliam felt the small distance stretch into miles. The stranglehold of control over his voice might as well mark Dorian a stranger, if not for the bond bridging that seemingly insurmountable space between them. “Too high on racing about with your elf to pay attention, to _think_. Too used to keeping me in the dark to consider any injury worth mentioning.”

Fitzwilliam’s brow furrowed. “This isn’t Fel’s fault,” he said before he could think, acting defensively when his brain was too slow to plot a head. “He didn’t know I was injured.” It was the wrong thing to say and as soon as the words were out he was ducking his head, biting his lip to keep any other folly from sliding free.

“Didn’t he?” Would Fitzwilliam flinch with every soft word from Dorian’s lips? “I’m sorry, you’ll have to forgive me as I speak following assumptions as I have no idea what transpired tonight. Other than poison induced ramblings as you started to fade in front of my very eyes.” Arms folded against his chest, Dorian would look the looming aggressor if Fitzwilliam didn’t know just how defensive that posture truly was. Holding himself together, protecting himself from further hurt. Protect himself from _Fitzwilliam_. “A supposed partner not bothering to check for wounds? Do you keep him in the dark as well? A need to know basis? I’d say that was wise considering the elf probably orchestrated the attack and you were too blinded by lust and too used to being in control of every facet of information to consider it.”

“Okay,” Fitzwilliam huffed, eyes shooting up to meet Dorian’s glare. “That’s enough. I’m not an idiot. You said to be wary, I am wary. Of course I didn’t tell him I was hurt. Didn’t tell him where I had to run off to either. So maybe stop blaming the convenient target and put your ire where it should be -- this was _my_ fault. Take it up with me.”

“I know it’s your fault.” Dorian snapped, finally some of the rage Fitzwilliam could feel leaking into his voice. “It’s your fault for trusting the elf. It’s your fault for believing yourself invincible. It’s your fault for thinking yourself above everyone when it comes to your endless planning and grand schemes. It’s your fault, Fitzwilliam, for forgetting we’re a partnership in favour of chasing after another one.”

“Dorian…” his voice broke around the name. Maker, was that what Dorian thought? “I-I didn’t know that’s how you felt.” He looked down and to the side, feeling, for the first time that thread, under all the pain and worry, of longing. “I have been unworthy of you, Serah.” His throat felt thick with emotion, with guilt. He didn’t know what else to say.

“Almost every night,” Dorian turned his head, the rough gravel of his voice cracking and Maker, it broke Fitzwilliam to hear the same thread of pain in that voice just as potently as it ached along the bond. “You dress in your costume and dash off to play at being something you’ve hardly trained to be. You won’t tell me where you go, you won’t tell me what you do and you expect me to find the same delight in your grand adventures as you do.” Fitzwilliam watched the subtle flex of muscles as Dorian hugged his folded arms closer to his chest, the ache in his heart only growing when Dorian faced him once again and all Fitzwilliam knew was the agonised fear in those ever-changing eyes. “A thousand grand schemes you convince me I need to trust you with just so I can do what I came here to do without having to make the heartbreaking decision to leave you behind. I’ve done it, Fitzwilliam, despite the fear it brings. The anger. I trusted you to be safe.”

A trembling breath and Dorian shook his head. “And because you don’t trust me in return tonight I almost lost you.”

Wetness pricked at his eyes, shame and guilt and pain rubbing together discordantly in the bond as he struggled to find the words. If Dorian knew what he was up to, under the guise of Ataashi, people could use it against him. Plausible deniability had seemed the safest choice. But now he was forced to wonder -- safe for whom?

Fitzwilliam had nearly died, the man he claimed to be shielding was hurting, _had been_ hurting. This didn’t work anymore. And pretending it did, or it would, would only drive that wedge deeper. It wasn’t worth losing Dorian over.

“I did this,” he said slowly, still too cowardly to meet Dorian’s gaze, eyes looking just a bit off center. “To protect you. Clearly--” his voice faltered on a small wet gasp, all broken and aching. “Clearly I failed. So tell me what you need of me, Doe, and I’ll give it to you. I don’t want this.”

“Release the stranglehold of control you have on any and all information. You _can’t_ keep believing you’ve the right to keep people in the dark - keep _me_ in the dark - out of some noble but controlling need to protect.” Dorian took a step forward but refused to release himself from the cage of his own arms, Fitzwilliam longing to set him free of that instinctive need to protect himself from the hurt Fitzwilliam was causing. He wanted those arms to want to wrap around him - not keep Dorian distant and so far away. “I want you to trust me to take of myself, to take care of _you_ just as you wish to do the same for me. We,” Dorian’s voice shuddered and suddenly he was there at the bedside, thumb and forefinger grasping at Fitzwilliam’s chin and refusing any attempt to dodge their gazes from finally meeting. “We are supposed be a partnership. I want you to stop being the Inquisitor, being the Assassin and be my Fitzwilliam again.”

Tears fell and he wasn’t sure when they had started. Somehow Dorian had seen down into him, found the dissatisfied soul of himself, and pulled it free. All the resentment he had for his mage for making him play this part, all the longing he had to be himself… he melted away in the face of that honesty. Dorian hadn’t forced any of this on him, it was all his own making. Dorian didn’t need  him to be anything but himself. How Fitzwilliam had convinced himself otherwise was beyond him. His chin quivered as he wept, too exhausted from healing and emotion to control himself. Though he failed to find words he forced his head, still in Dorian’s firm grasp, to nod.

And then Dorian was crawling onto the bed and wrapping him in an embrace just the wrong side of too tight for all it’s desperation but Fitzwilliam could not finally a single part of him that cared. He melted into Dorian’s arms and clung almost as desperately, tears hot and wet against neck and the bared skin of Dorian’s shoulder. “You’ve almost broken yourself.” Dorian whispered, voice wet with tears. “You were well on your way to doing your best to break _us_ , Fitzwilliam. Even if I didn’t lose you tonight, it would have been some day further along the path you were so determined to take us.” He pressed a shuddering kiss atop Fitzwilliam’s sweat-damp hair, another against his temple. “You can’t keep doing this. _We_ need to find another way.”

More emphatic nodding, more breath that was too hard to draw in. That was all he was capable of for long moments. Finally, he forced himself to speak, no matter how small and broken he sounded. “I promise,” he whimpered. “We’ll find another way. Together. I won’t keep you in the dark any more.”

Dorian maneuvered them to lie down, still clutching Fitzwilliam close as he shifted them about on the bed and for that Fitzwilliam was pathetically grateful. He felt fingers begin to thread through his hair, the gentle, soothing motion drawing forth a shuddering sigh as he tried to twine himself as completely as he could within Dorian’s embrace. “Promise me something, Amatus.” Dorian murmured, solemn weight to the request even as he nuzzled his nose against Fitzwilliam’s temple.

Fitzwilliam nodded, feeling sure he’d agree to almost anything now that he could feel Dorian’s warmth again. Now that he knew he had not yet been doomed to a lifetime without it. Though, admittedly, he felt a bit of dread as he waited for the request.

“Investigate the elf.” Dorian lips whispered over Fitzwilliam’s hair as he spoke. “I know you lead with your heart and I trust your instincts. But…” Dorian sighed. “Something isn’t right here and I cannot shake the feeling that he is a danger to you that you just can’t see.”

“I’ll start investigating him in earnest,” Fitzwilliam vowed. “I’m not the only one with good instincts. If you feel like something is wrong, it probably is.” He burrowed closer, remaining purposely ignorant of the fact that they were already as close as they could be while still wearing clothing. “If you don’t trust him, that’s more than enough reason to find out more.” And he meant that. As much as he trusted Feladara, as willing as he was to put his life in the elf’s hands… well, there weren’t many people he’d trust with Dorian. He’d do it for his mage if not for himself.

“Thank you.” Dorian murmured and Fitzwilliam felt the overwhelming gratitude for his easy acceptance flood the bond with warmth. “I would not deny you your attractions, your flirtations, Amatus. I know you feel...drawn to him. Still, I cannot shake this feeling and I need to know you’ve taken steps to protect yourself as determinedly as you want to protect me.”

_He has my number there,_ Fitzwilliam thought with a small smile. He was used to putting everyone before himself. He was unused to this idea that protecting Dorian meant taking care personally. “I’ll admit,” he said slowly, cheeks already heating. “I’ve been acting a bit like a love-sick adolescent. It’s time I start using my considerable intelligence. I’ll find out what I can. And I’ll be more open about my assignments. We work better together, anyway.”

He felt the soft breath of Dorian’s huff of laughter. “Moon-eyes I can handle and should my fears be shown to be unnecessary, I will listen to your awestruck voice for as long as you wish to regale me of tales of your handsome elf. But.” Dorian dropped another kiss atop Fitzwilliam’s hair. “ _we_ are partners first and foremost and you are right, we work better together than we do apart. Or with kind-hearted fools making all the plans, thinking they need to control everything to keep everyone safe.”

“Fool indeed,” Fitzwilliam admitted. He let himself melt into the heat of Dorian’s body pressed to his own. “Doe,” he said softly, words somewhat muffled by his steadfast refusal to pull his face out of Dorian’s chest. “This was awful, and I hated it. But I feel… lighter, now.  And less distant than I have in… in a long while.”

“I as well, Amatus.” His mage squeezed, hands smoothing over hair and skin as the bond transmitted Dorian’s contentment too. It was only with the absence of it that Fitzwilliam could see how tangled up Dorian had been as of late, and he couldn’t help but notice he’d been suffering from the same ailment. It had been hard to see as it happened, each little stone of responsibility weighed almost nothing, but one by one they had amounted to a smothering mass, something that kept his burdened and unable to reach Dorian the way he used to. Now? Well, now he finally felt free.

And, more importantly -- he didn’t feel alone.

 

 

~fin Ch 9~

 

 

 

 

Authors' Note:  


E: This...this thing was an absolute monster that fought every step of the way. Serious amounts of tea were consumed to wrangle this chapter into submission. I may have, on one occasion, thrown something.

_R: Only the one occasion? I guess I win that account then. I threw at least a few pens. And once, a cat. She was fine, it was just from in front of my computer to the floor. But really, why do cats do that? Anyway, yes, much tea, and throwing, and hair pulling. Not the fun kind either. The kind that leaves it a ratty mess._

E: Do we need to put a disclaimer on this that no cats were harmed in the making of this chapter? I feel like we need to.

_R: It’ll be fine. Shhhh. Well, anyway, I suppose we should warn them that updates aren’t going to be as… ‘timely’ as they once were. When I started writing the Makers series chapters came in at about three thousand words. That’s shorter than the average short story. I could manage one of them a week. Toward the end of Birthrights and the beginning of Redeemers I was averaging about six thousand words._

_But now, NOW, my illustrious co-writer has come along and, as usual, tossed everything up in the air in a beautiful sprawl. We’re writing well over ten thousand per chapter now. In fact, this one comes in at almost fifteen thousand. So, in an effort to not be entirely stressed out and going any more crazy than we already are, we’re just going to post them when they are done. Because, let’s be honest, all of these chapters are going to be monsters. I guess what I am saying is… We’ll make it worth your while?_

E: What can I say? I like to keep you on your toes, oh co-writer of mine. We will definitely make it worth your while though, readers. I promise. There’s some very interesting plot lines coming up and the bigger chapters will definitely make up for not getting them on the regular. Next chapter especially - the return of some familiar faces, the beginning of the investigation into Feladara, Skyhold *grins*

_R: She’s teasing you, my darlings. You have my sympathy. It’s something, with which, I am all too familiar. She’s a wicked, lovely, mischievous woman. But yes, we do have a few conversations planned. It’s time for Fitzwilliam to talk to his spies. That means a trip back to Skyhold, and Leli, and Bull, and Sera, and even the B team (that’s our friends in Adjustments ;)). I think you will find, if you enjoyed Birthrights, you will be as happy as we are to see old friends once more._

E: And while the Inquisitor is away, the elf will play. So there is definitely many, many things to look forward to!

_R: That’s it for us, I think. But lest I be remiss in my manners: A very happy holiday to you, no matter which you celebrate. I hope your time is filled with loved ones both blood and chosen, games, and smiles, and laughter. And, as it is unlikely there will be a new chapter before then a Happy New Year! Also… this marks a year since I posted Birthrights. Holy moley. Wow._

_Anything else, my love?_

E: Well what can I possibly say after such lovely holiday well wishes?

_R: “What she said”?_

E: *grins* That’s what she said.

_R: Oh lord, we have to stop now. Or this is going to get /really/ out of control. *laughs*_

E: See you next chapter, dear readers! ;)


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 

 

“I am not keen on this,” Fitzwilliam muttered as he packed the few things he would need to take with him to Skyhold. There would be clothing, and any sundries he might require there already, but he always carted research and notes from place to place. He slipped the books and papers into his satchel and threw the flap over.

Two weeks gone since the poison had nearly killed him and in that time Dorian had been a mother hen, yes, but it had been kind of nice to have the chance to ignore the outside world for a while. Dorian, naturally, still had to go out on occasion to accomplish this Senate business or that, but he’d been very firm with Fitzwilliam. He’d been allowed nothing but recovery for several days and after that only approved “activities” were permitted.

He smiled as Dorian came up behind him, wrapping his arms about his waist and resting his head on his shoulder. “I’m never keen to be parted from you, Amatus,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to Fitz’s neck. “But this is the price we pay for our vacation -- now there is much catching up to do.”

“But I’ll be gone for days,” he whined. Days in Skyhold, away from Dorian. And with no way to send word to Feladara… Admittedly, Fitzwilliam had left a couple of times while his lover was at  meetings to deliver vague messages to one of the elf’s drops. Perhaps it was foolish, but Dorian agreed, reluctantly, that it was better to let Feladara know he was okay than to risk him hunting Ataashi down and exposing his identity.

“Perhaps you will conclude your work swiftly,” Dorian suggested. His voice lowered into a purr as his lips found purchase again. “I could offer incentive, should it be required.”

Fitzwilliam tilted his head to the side to allow better access. “Such a generous offer,” he gasped, pressing his backside snugly against Dorian. “You know, I still have time before Leliana expects me…”

“Don’t taunt me, Fitzwilliam Trevelyan,” Dorian pouted, teeth darting out to nip playfully at the pinkening flesh before him. “It’s unkind.”

He moaned, as he always did when Dorian engaged in such brutality. “Not taunting,” he sighed finally. “Offering.” He wiggled his hips and indulged in the ridge of his lover’s already blossoming arousal.

However, Dorian still seemed suspicious. “I am going to go get naked and get in that bed,” he informed with an air of seriousness. “And if you do not join me, Amatus, if you leave me in our bed and run off to Skyhold to frolic about, I swear I will never forgive you.”

Fitzwilliam turned in the circle of Dorian’s arms and smiled -- a wicked, playful thing that had Dorian’s brows going up in question. “Not if I get there first!” Fitz ducked out of Dorian’s grasp a moment before his arms tightened and sprinted straight to the bed. He came up to it too quickly to stop and launched himself into the air before landing spread-eagle on the fine silk and cotton that had only _just_ been made up after their night in it.

Dorian was quick on his heels, however, with a dexterity Fitz often forgot the mage possessed. It was a handful of breaths before he was crawling over him -- as he rolled onto his back -- and pinning Fitzwilliam to the bed.  “You are a sneak and a cheat, Amatus.” Dorian grinned down at him. “And you are going to pay for that stunt.”

“Ooooh no,” Fitzwilliam lamented, rolling his eyes. “Someone help.”

“You’ll pay for that one too,” Dorian growled.

In a flurry of fingers and teeth Dorian relieved him of his clothing, playfully tossing it about and trailing delighted kisses along each newly-beared inch of flesh. Fitzwilliam was no slouch in his own efforts, divesting Dorian of his ensemble as efficiently, if not as entertainingly, as his lover did for him. Of course, given his prone position he didn’t manage to get Dorian entirely naked. His trousers and smallclothes were settled about his knees, hampered by further movement by his footwear.  

“I don’t know, Dorian,” Fitzwilliam litled on the tail of a sigh. “I’m afraid I fail to see how this is meant to be a punishment. Especially with the boots.” Hungry lips suckled at the hollow of his throat, effectively stealing any further quips.

“I’ll get to it.” The pause in skin contact needed to speak was brief, Dorian almost immediately returning his lips to Fitzwilliam’s collar bone and moving downward, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses. Several lovely minutes passed in that way as Fitz languished in the attention and sensation his mage showered upon him. Really, this felt more like a reward than a natural consequence of his smart-assery.

Too late, he noticed Dorian’s kisses had wandered. No longer were they slipping over his abdomen, tongue snaking out to leave wet paths that left Fitz arching into the touch. No, they’d moved to the side, past his bottom ribs to his waist in a way that was too deliberate to be incidental. Dorian paused there, Fitzwilliam held his breath, and then it happened.

Dorian pressed his lips to the skin as his hands took a solid hold on Fitzwilliam’s hips. There was no escape as Dorian began to _wiggle_ his mustache over the very sensitive, very ticklish skin. “Ah! Dorian! Dorian, no!” He thrashed his body back and forth, giggling helplessly. Not enough to break free, not with the very secure grip of the mage’s large hands.

“Take your punishment like a good boy,” Dorian laughed. There was more mustache induced tickling and then, as Fitzwilliam looked down, a wicked quirk curled those lips before Dorian made a show of taking a deep breath.

He knew what was coming, but he was helpless to stop it.

Dusky pink lips created a seal against Fitz’s stomach and then, then Dorian blew. The effect was a rumbling reverberation all over his abdomen that tickled something fierce. “Ah, no, nooooo,” Fitzwilliam panted between peals of helpless laughter. He thrashed, he bucked, he begged, and he threatened until he had no breath to spare for anything but not succumbing to the blackness the lack of air threatened to bring.

Only then did Dorian relent, pressing his cheek to the heavy rise and fall of Fitzwilliam’s chest as he allowed him to come back down. Though Dorian’s body did shudder with its own silent chuckles, there were no more attempts to torture.

“That was _evil_ ,” Fitzwilliam gasped when he finally had breath to spare.

“I told you you were going to pay.” Dorian lifted his head to look up at Fitzwilliam all dancing eyes and quirked lips. It seemed he’d also mussed the mage’s hair during their exchange and, Maker if the sight didn’t make his heart skip.

“Evil,” Fitzwilliam reiterated though it didn’t quite have the same accusatory tone when he was smiling besottedly.

Crawling the rest of the way up his body, Dorian pressed a smirking kiss to Fitzwilliam’s lips. He lingered there until smiles softened and kisses became more heated. Tongues darted to and fro stealing tastes and lapping at lips as hands began to wander with greater purpose. Dorian mostly relied on his to hold his weight off the smaller man, a fact which Fitz used to his advantage, moving to scratch his nails across Dorian’s ribs. The effect was as instant as it was predictable and Dorian’s back arched. Regrettably, the press pulled his lips free but the delicious way it snugged their hips, and erections, together more than made up for the momentary loss.  

“Oh, Amatus,” Dorian purred. He dipped his head low, brushing their noses as he stole another kiss. “Now who is playing dirty?”

“Turnabout and all that,” Fitzwilliam quipped back.

Dorian’s soft smile turned positively wicked. “Now _that_ ,” he gruffed, “I can do.”

Fitzwilliam often forgot how _strong_ Dorian was. After all, he was a scholar and a mage, not traits that generally lent themselves to strength conditioning. And yet, in  moments like this the fact he somehow found activities of brawn to balance those of brain was undeniable. Dorian reared back onto his knees as his hands returned to Fitzwilliam’s hips once more. Then, with the smallest exertion of effort, his lover _flipped_ him onto his stomach. It had the unfortunate side effect of tossing him a bit to the right side of the bed, but a subtle slide of Dorian's stance and another tug had Fitzwilliam up on his knees and pleasantly nestled back against Dorian’s lap.

Palms slid across his stomach and up to his chest asking, with gentle insistence, for Fitzwilliam to sit up. He followed, rising until Dorian had hugged him to his chest. Lips again took possession of his neck, teeth biting at corded tendons, tongue lathing soothingly after. He didn’t realize he was rocking back against his mage until firm hands took his hips, stilling them. “If you keep that up,” Dorian warned, his breath hot and humid on Fitzwilliam’s ear, “I’ll be done before we get started.” Fitzwilliam managed only a nod of understanding, but it was enough.

His mage’s hands left him, skin cooling as Fitzwilliam whimpered an objection. Dorian pressed a kiss to his shoulder by way of apology. “Shh,” he soothed. Behind him the mage was moving, fumbling for something. He found it in short order, returning his attentions to Fitzwilliam as he nudged his ass with a subtle buck of his hips. “Ease up a bit.” Fitz rose up on his knees. It separated them entirely and he was not at all keen on it, but he heard the pop of a cork shortly followed by Dorian hissing softly, presumably as he applied the lubricating oil to his cock.

When he reached out, slick fingers sliding against the tight ring of Fitzwilliam’s ass he could not suppress the cry of want, the rock of his body backward into that touch, begging for more. His mage chuckled softly, but denied him. No matter how Fitzwilliam gasped or wriggled he could not find purchase. Dorian’s touch remained frustratingly light. “Dorian!” The name might as well have been a plea.

Soft, strong hands were guiding him back. He felt the slip of Dorian’s length along the crack of his buttox, rocked against it, but Dorian just held him close and used his unoiled hand to coax Fitzwilliam’s head to turn enough that he could kiss him once more. The awkward angle meant it was a brief, hungry, press of lips but he was glad for it. When they parted Dorian dropped more open-mouthed kisses down his jaw and neck.

“I apologize for the abbreviated nature of our tryst this morning,” Dorian purred. He was shifting, plying Fitz’s hips up with one hand as he guided himself to the pucker of Fitzwilliam’s ass with the other. “We’re on a bit of a time constraint, I’m told. I’ll make it quick.”

Words were stolen from his lips as the flared tip of Dorian’s length penetrated him. For the duration of the slow slide Fitzwilliam was capable of nothing but gasps and moans. Only when he was fully seated in Dorian’s lap, head thrown back over his mage’s shoulder, did he manage to summon speech. “And what if I object,” he mused. “What if I hold off and make it last?”

Dorian rocked his hips forward, bouncing Fitzwilliam so that he could feel every bit of Dorian as he thrust within him. “Oh I’m not worried about that,” he laughed.

“A-and why is, ah. That?” Fitzwilliam shuddered, already knowing, as Dorian’s lips and teeth teased his earlobe, that his words to his mage would be impossible to put into action.

“Because you seem to have forgotten one important detail.” He could hear the strain in Dorian’s words now, feel the puff of his breath as he exerted himself more, hips thrusting, hands guiding Fitzwilliam back against him, smoothing up his chest and hugging him close as they moved in concert. His legs started to burn with the effort, but there was no way he’d stop now.

They were losing rhythm by the time Fitzwilliam dared to take the bait. He could feel Dorian’s shaft twitching inside him as it moved, slipping over the spot inside him that had his own cock kicking hard. It was near impossible to hold on as it was. “What have I forgotten, Doe?” The inquiry was more soft sounds than words at this point as Dorian’s grip across his chest tightened until he thought he might be trying to merge them even further.

“I’m still wearing the boots,” Dorian huffed. Fitzwilliam’s words abandoned him completely, his legs held him up but he was entirely at his lover’s mercy in this moment and he gave himself over to it. “You like the image of that.” The words were grunts, he wasn’t even sure if Dorian knew what he was saying now. “My legs in butter-soft leather, the smell of it mixed with the scent of sex-” Dorian cut off on a cry, thrusts hard and random now. “When you get back,” he promised. “I’ll wear them again. Just the boots and nothing else, and let you have whatever you want.”

It was the final promise, the sweetness and lust in his tone, that pushed Fitzwilliam over the edge. He threw his head back, arching against his mage as his climax claimed him. There was no time to feel sorry for messing the bedding as he dripped his arousal onto them. No thought but for the sound of Dorian’s cries in his ear, for the feel of his cock shuddering inside him, for the clutch of hands that held him close until they both settled back against the bed.

Still in Dorian’s lap, still wrapped in his arms, he first became aware of Dorian’s lips trailing soft kisses, his mustache tickling lightly. “Mmmm,” Fitzwilliam sighed, tilting his head to invite more. “I love you.”

“And I you, Amatus,” his mage murmured against the sweat-slicked flesh of his shoulder.

Moving simply required too much effort. He rested all of his weight on Dorian, head lolling on the curve of his shoulder, positively preening under his mages continued efforts, but he mustered the strength to turn his head to the side and press his lips to the smooth curve of Dorian's jaw. He could feel the muscle shift under them as Dorian smiled.

A few more minutes of companionable silence and then the stiffness of folded legs finally cut through the afterglow. They both shifted a little, trying to get more comfortable, to stay close, but soon both were laughing. “I think,” Fitzwilliam said through another run of helpless giggles. “It’s time to admit defeat Dorian.” He slid from his perch, hissing softly as he moved to the edge of the bed and began to stretch his legs. He reached his hands to the ceiling and humming with pleasure as he felt the satisfying “pop” of his vertebrae.

Fitzwilliam leaned across the bed and pecked a kiss to Dorian’s high cheekbone. “I’ll grab you a cloth.” And with that he dashed over to the washing stand as Dorian moved about on the bed behind him. He turned back a moment later, warm, wet cloth in hand, to find Dorian was peeling out of the rest of his clothing and throwing the duvet back. He couldn’t help but feel a little sad to see the boots set aside.

Dorian took the proffered towel and they both cleaned up quickly before falling onto the soft sheets in a tangle of limbs. “I must say,” Fitz sighed as Dorian nosed into his, undoubtedly, sex-crazed hair. “I’m still not keen on leaving you, but that was a brilliant send-off.”

The puff of Dorian’s laughter ruffled his hair even further. “You expected anything less?”

“Oh no, perish the thought.” Fitzwilliam burrowed closer, soothed by the press of warm naked flesh and the spice and oil smell of his lover and indulging the need for closeness until the warm breeze of a tevinter morning blew through the window and pulled him from his dreamlike haze.

They could lay there and keep pretending neither of them had to go about their days -- that Fitzwilliam was expected at Skyhold and needed to be through the Warren in the next few minutes in order to not be late. Dorian certainly favoured that option, if the continued nuzzling and tangle of legs he didn’t seem to be concerned with untwining any time soon was to be taken into account. Fitzwilliam found he wasn’t all that impressed with having to leave the warmth of their bed, of Dorian, either. Perhaps he was just a bit clingy, a bit more focused on spending time with Dorian alone now they’d had the opportunity to lose themselves in each other while Fitzwilliam had no pressing concerns other than his recovery. Grumbling mostly to himself, he turned in the circle of Dorian’s arms to rest his head on the pillow they shared. “I’m going to have to get up.”

“That is an incredibly boring and silly idea.” Dorian pouted and Fitzwilliam resisted the desire to kiss those already kiss swollen lips. They’d never leave the bed if he started all over again. “I can’t, in good conscious allow you to make such a decision.”

Laughing a little, and bumping their noses, Fitzwilliam heaved a great sigh. “Silly or not I’m afraid Leliana will make me clean the rookery if I keep her waiting.” He didn’t move to leave the warmth of Dorian’s embrace, however. Instead, he wriggled closer until he could duck his head against the broad, powerful expanse of his lover’s chest. He could feel Dorian’s heartbeat through his skin, let the content in the bond wash over him in waves, and breathe deep the scent of him that always calmed his restless spirit.

Dorian’s hands wandered over his back, smoothing across his skin, carding through his tousled hair, until, finally, he made a small sound of resigned disquiet. “We’ll get up together,” he sighed, moving at last and releasing Fitzwilliam. “I don’t fancy being here surrounded by the smell of sex when you’re across the Waking Sea. I’ll leave when you do and go about my errands.”

They dressed with the kind of comfortable ease and quiet Fitzwilliam had come to cherish. No need to fill the space with words, no worries of embarrassment if he made a funny face whilst pulling on his boots. It was the sort of peace you only got from being truly comfortable with someone and, he considered, much more valuable than any of the passion inherent in their early relationship. He would miss sharing these silences while he was away.

Unfortunately, the calm of their exertions was wearing off to be replaced by renewed anxiety over this trip to Skyhold. He suspected everyone he asked about Feladara and the investigation he was going to launch would side with Dorian. It was the reasonable side, the side of sense and caution and reason after all -- it was the _right_ side to be on. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth. The wariness just didn’t _feel_ right to him, didn’t feel natural, and it bothered him that it didn’t.

Gentle hands grasped his chin and urged his face upward until Dorian could lean down and kiss his swollen bottom lip. “Don’t meet trouble half way,” his mage reminded him with another peck.

“I don’t want to leave you, Doe.” He leaned forward, nosing at Dorian’s neck through the opening of his high collar. Dorian wrapped him up in his arms but kept the embrace brief. Instead his hands moved to Fitz’s shoulders pushing him back again so he could meet his gaze.

“We’re fine, Amatus.” Fitzwilliam flushed to think how easily his thought had been read by his lover. “And we will continue to be fine if we are apart for a while.” He paused, smiling softly before fixing the top of Fitzwilliam’s head with a glower. “Andraste, your hair is a mess.” He carded his fingers through it in a show for trying to tame it, but Fitzwilliam was on to him.

“You just like touching it.”

“I must,” Dorian admitted scoffing. “Because the Maker knows getting it to sit flat is an effort in futility.”

Fitzwilliam quirked a lopsided smile and reached up to touch Dorian’s hair only to have the mage reeling away from him and lifting his hands defensively. “I _just_ got it sorted!” Fitz put his hands down and closed the space between them before pressing an apologetic kiss to the worried slant of lips.

“C’mon,” he sighed when he found the strength to pull away. He could still feel the tickle of Dorian’s mustache and wriggled his nose as he turned and grabbed his bag. “Walk me to the the Warren?”

Perfect example of courtly manners that Dorian was, he offered Fitzwilliam his arm. “It would be my pleasure, Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

*******

Being in the war room always made him feel a bit on edge. He’d never been here without having to make weighty and important decisions - too many lives held in the palms of his hands and three sets of eyes so full of expectation. At least, he thought ruefully, the room was full of people he considered allies if not outright friends. But he had a feeling this was going to be a particularly awful meeting. The conversations he’d had with Josephine over the sending stone had lead him to believe things were getting a little worse every day. Unrest among the nobles, increased distrust of the mages despite their efforts with the new college. A thousand whispers with little good to say and still too many poisonous words even after all this time. All the Inquisition had done. With that in mind, he could only imagine how this meeting was going to go. 

The table before him, while still littered with various markers indicating threats that needed to be met by their forces, now contained far more showing various political concerns. As well as locations which marked strategic points of interest Leliana had gathered intel on from her network. Fitzwilliam didn’t know how he should feel about the steady rise in number too close to his parent’s estate as well as the forests nearby. The area had been in a constant state of unrest since the massacre at Wycome - the effects far reaching. The Dalish of the Free Marches didn’t soon forget the eradication of an entire Clan nor could the nobles the brutal death of the Duke in what seemed like retribution. No one had been able to pin the Duke’s murder on any one Clan but it was accepted that it had been revenge - clear and simple. Fitzwilliam couldn’t say he hadn’t spared some vicious delight in the Duke’s death, despite the far reaching and long lasting repercussions of the action. 

Even after time passing, the increase in hostilities between the elves and the humans of the area seemed fraught with the possibility of more bloodshed. Fitzwilliam had asked Leliana to keep a keen eye out. On the Free Marches as a whole, to be honest. There were always too many markers resting atop where Kirkwall sat upon the map, despite Varric, Hawke and Anders’ efforts. With Starkhaven constantly making things difficult and the ever-present tensions near Wycome with the elves - not to mention the mages at one of the colleges at Ostwick - Fitzwilliam honestly wondered if one day everything would just explode. He stifled a groan at his mind’s not so appropriate but somewhat accurate descriptor. He was certain, at least, Leliana’s report would be extensive.

It was the Ambassador, however, who started first. “I’m afraid,” Josephine said gently, “relations with the nobility have not improved as we had hoped.”

“Of course it hasn’t,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “And who have we managed to anger now? I’m assuming there is a long and lengthy list of complaints. What do they have to whinge about this time?” 

“The Fereldan nobility is mostly concerned with the lack of oversight at the new college, despite the fact Cullen has handpicked an entire team of Templars at Divine Victoria's request.” 

Cullen’s scoff was audible and brought a smile to Fitz’s lips. “They  _ should _ be more grateful. It was unsettlingly difficult to find Templars who weren’t inclined to abuse their position. Even fewer who hadn’t fallen headfirst into the Lyrium addiction.” He threw his hands up in exasperation, inspiring Josephine to a snicker she quickly hid behind a hand. “I found them  _ gold  _ in a sewer and they’re complaining there isn’t more!” 

“There are many who would argue the quality of the Templar is irrelevant,” Leliana pointed out. 

“And those people are wrong,” Fitzwilliam growled. He would have said so before he’d fallen for Dorian, if not as vehemently as he now was. “The current check and balances are non-negotiable. The College will  _ not _ become another prison.” He didn’t realize he was growling until he looked around at the startled faces around him. 

“No one wants that,” Josephine assured him. “Well, no one in this room wants that,” she corrected with a grimace. “It is largely those who side strongly with the Chantry who are making the most noise on the matter. Despite the fact the Divine herself is in support of these changes. It is fortunate for us that none of them have enough influence to alter the plans we have set in motion. But I will advise you, again,” she fixed him with a pointed look, “that you cannot ignore them forever. You must agree to a meeting at some point.”

“I’ll meet with Divine Victoria, here at Skyhold,” he muttered with agreement. “It would be good to see Cassandra once more.”

Josephine nodded. “She’s been getting a bit stir crazy. I think she would welcome the opportunity to visit. Though she is having her own struggles with the Seekers. They’re… unsatisfied with her extreme reformations. She’s worried it might come to a schism.”

He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed roughly at his face. “Tell her we’ll talk about that too, when she comes. The Inquisition can lend its hand at easing negotiations if it comes to that.” He suspected his words might have been too muffled for Josephine to understand but when he looked up she was already scribbling away on her absurd board. Fitz couldn’t help but smile softly, endeared by her diligence. 

“That will not help the rumblings from Orlais and Ferelden,” Leliana pointed out. “They are already complaining the Inquisition is either under too much influence from the Chantry or not enough. Depending, of course, on whom you speak to.” 

“He can’t bloody well please everyone,” Cullen objected. 

“ _ Thank you,  _ Cullen,” Fitzwilliam said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maker, he was already getting a headache. “It’d be nice if they’d actually make up their minds whether they want the Chantry to influence the Inquisition or not. Or just...stop altogether and keep their noses out of our business considering  _ I _ will decide how much and how little influence the Chantry will have. Not them.”

It wasn’t often Fitzwilliam threw his weight behind his own title and the power contained within it but he’d long since had  _ enough _ of dealing with nobles and their endless shifting tides of opinion. If his vehemence startled any of his advisors, their faces showed no sign of surprise. In all honesty, Fitzwilliam expected they’d tired of the song and dance themselves. Even Josephine, as much as she usually thrived on that whole arena. If anything, his short fuse would have them concerned and curious of the possible causes - outside of the blighted nobles. They knew him well enough to know it was hardly the only thing weighing on his mind.

“I am simply saying that further meetings with the new Divine will inspire more talk,” Leliana pointed out, a shrewd look pining Fitzwilliam in place. He resisted the urge to shift under the weight of that gaze, knowing his assumptions at least in Leliana’s respect had been correct. He’d be hearing more of this later, he was certain. “I am not saying we shouldn't do it. However we continue to align ourselves and to what level, I quite like what Cassandra has been doing with the Chantry.” 

“As do a small but vocal minority in the Fereldan nobility.” Jospehine added. “Divine Victoria is not without her supporters and we are not without ours in turn, by making known our continued and steadfast ties with Cassandra.”

“Be honest,” Fitzwilliam grumbled, “It’s mostly the Orlesians, isn’t it.”

“Oh no,” she laughed, something wry in the sweet sound. “They are far more concerned that you have become Tevinter’s Puppet. Especially now that Dorian has attained a seat on the Senate.”

Wincing, Fitzwilliam was forced to admit, “That’s largely my fault. I’ve been playing the fool so I might be able to attain more information. If I’m honest I’m quite  _ done _ with that game. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it up much longer. I am just...unsure at this stage just how to go about ending it.”

His counselors nodded. Cullen rubbed at his chin, Josie scribbled more, Leliana continued to fix him with a gaze that saw far too much. He bowed his head. 

“Is there anything else?” He truly hoped there wasn’t.

“I can go more into the various information I’ve gathered on the nobles if you’re willing to come to the rookery later,” Leliana suggested. Fitz could feel the suggestion in it. She didn’t really want to talk about the nobels. Maybe a bit, but this was probably more about talking to  _ him _ about whatever was bothering him than anything else. Damn spies. He nodded his agreement. 

“I have additional reports on the Rifts,” Cullen said as he moved to the table. He indicated the bright green markers. 

“More than there used to be.” Fitz looked them over. Mostly they were in the north, with a high concentration in the Imperium, but he could see there were a few in the south, locations seeming to appear at random. He pointed to one. “Is this reliable?” he asked, a bit of alarm creeping into his voice as he pointed at the green spike over Kirkwall. “Who reported this one?”

“Very reliable, I’m afraid,” Cullen said. “We received word of that one from Varric.”

His mouth fell open, working wordlessly as he mussed his hair. “Varric? Our Varric? Bianca, Varric?” Cullen’s lips quirked into a suppressed smile but he nodded affirmation. “Well, fuck,” he sighed. “That’s pretty damn reliable.” 

“Indeed,” Cullen agreed. “Anders has been inspecting it. Doing ‘experiments’ and sending us the data. There’s a sheaf of his reports on the desk in your chambers. I believe it includes personal notes from Cole as well.” Fitzwilliam could hear the amusement in his voice more than he could see it in his expression. It would never cease to amaze him that Cullen had finally decided Cole  _ wasn’t _ about to turn into a demon. They almost got along. Only Cole’s habit of diving into other people’s heads didn’t sit well with the commander. Not that it sat well with any of them, mind. 

“A great deal of these are in the north,” Fitzwilliam pondered aloud. “Any idea why that would be?”

Cullen shook his head. “So far we haven’t been able to determine a pattern. We have some mages at the College looking into it. Researching everything from fault lines to children’s tales. So far no luck. Though I will say it’s a good thing you’re in Tevinter. It seem the Imperium is having the highest saturation.”

“Are all of those reports reliable?” Fitz gestured to the top of the map where details were quickly being obscured by the green spikes.

“Not all,” Leliana admitted. “But even half of them being accurate would be cause for alarm.”

“Maker’s hairy ass,” Fitzwilliam grumbled. “Closing the Breech was supposed to reduce the rifts, not make more!” 

Josephine’s giggle rang out again, her weakness for vulgarity to blame no doubt. “Well,” she said once she was composed, “they’ve all but vanished in the South. So perhaps Tevinter’s infestation is unrelated. Maybe this is the result of something?” 

“That’s intriguing,” Fitzwilliam admitted. “There’s been other issues in Tevinter. Magic isn’t working properly. Perhaps the two are symptoms of the same ailment.”

“What do you mean, ‘magic isn’t working’?” Cullen asked, suddenly as serious as the grave. 

“Dorian’s been gathering reports. It’s mostly affecting the powerful mages right now. Those who throw a lot of magic around. But I’d wager it’s just only a matter of time until it’s spread to them all.” He went to the drawer and pulled out a new, unused set of markers. These were purple. “I know there are several confirmed in Minrathous,” he said as he placed one on the capitol. “And a few in the outlying towns where reclusive Magisters prefer to live.” A few more joined, dotted around the outskirts of the city. “Leliana, have you heard any rumblings from you network?”

She nodded. “I’d written them off as tales of fancy but perhaps there is some credence.” She took her place at the table, lifting several markers from his hand and settling them on the map. “I am confident these three reports from Orlais are authentic.” They came to rest on Halamshiral and Montsimmard before Leliana placed one more smack in the middle of the Arbor Wilds. That was concerning enough, but the very last marker settled in Kirkwall. Fitzwilliam shot her a quirked brow in question. “I thought Anders was telling colorful stories the last time we spoke,” she explained. “But it would seem he was not.” 

Fitzwilliam stood back and looked at the spread. It was many many more than he was comfortable seeing. “News of this doesn’t leave this room,” he said seriously. “I’ll notify the grand enchanter while I’m here. Perhaps they will have some idea or at least more detailed accounts.” Looking around at their faces he could tell he didn’t need to impress how  _ bad _ this was. With the Rebellion only in their recent past, distrust for mages and the new system still ran rampant. If they wanted to hold on to their new arrangement, to the freedom mages not only richly deserved but also desperately needed, news of this simply could not become public. “Josephine, Leliana, I need you to be proactive about this. Fabricate information, rumors of what could be causing it, something, anything, to keep the attention off the mages themselves.” They nodded their agreement. Maker, but he was  _ not _ looking forward to telling the grand enchanter his mages couldn’t be trusted with their magic. Dorian knew more. He’d have to arrange talks between them. 

Nodding, he ran his hand through his hair. “Are there any other matters on the table that cannot wait until tomorrow?” He already sounded weary and he still had more to do today. A great deal more. He would just hold on to the distant knowledge that eventually he would settle in his rooms. He  _ wanted _ to speak with Dorian over the sending stone, but he knew his lover had a full evening before him. It was no matter. It would keep. 

“I believe that is all on today’s agenda,” Josephine agreed. “Though we will have to meet again in the morning.”

He shook his head. “Push it to the afternoon Josie. I’ll need to talk to the grand enchanter before anything else.” She bobbed her head in reluctant agreement. “Thank you.” He fixed her with an earnest smile, lingering a moment before turning it on the rest of them “All of you.” He rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to relax a bit. “Leliana, I’ll be up to the rookery later. Commander, Madame Ambassador, until tomorrow.” He did not wait for their all too formal bobs and bows before turning on his heel and leaving the war room as quickly as possible. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eclectify: This gave us absolute hell. We're sorry it's taken so long. We never want to look at it again
> 
> RikkiTikkiCathy: THANK GOD THIS OVER GO READ CH 11 IT IS MUCH BETTER.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

 

_ Andraste’s marriage bed! _ Fitzwilliam was, admittedly, in a sour mood. How had a day that started so beautifully turned to absolute nug shit in only a few hours? The nobles, of course, were  _ always _ an issue but the new rifts? Well, the rifts had been a problem he hoped were going to solve themselves, with the Breech sealed. But no. No, of course not. 

_ Nobles are easy, Ash. _ He could practically hear Feladara in his head, see him smirking and looking all manner of wicked.  _ A knife in the back, across the throat, get creative. _

Those thoughts and images should have worried him. Fantasies conjured by imagination though they were, and harmless, he knew he ought to be concerned at how easily the elf’s voice and face came to mind. How vividly his presence seemed to linger despite the distance. The wicked words he whispered.

He wasn’t. At all. In fact, by the time he’d walked into the tavern, guided by memory more than conscious effort, his lips were quirking up at the corners. 

Distracted as he was, it was no surprise that he failed to notice he had company until it was upon him.

“Good to see you, Boss,” Iron Bull smiled and slapped him on the back -- a tempered gesture but it still shifted Fitzwilliam off balance. “Wasn’t sure when we’d get to see you again. Your visits have been... “

“Brief? Focused? All business and no fun?” Fitz offered with a laugh. Bull’s hand lingered, the massive spread of it covering the span of his shoulders with a comforting, reassuring warmth that he had missed. He leaned into it as the calloused pad of Bull’s thumb made small strokes across the back of his neck. 

“Something like that,” Bull agreed. His voice had gone soft but it was all business when he continued. “So, what brings you to my den of debauchery?”

“Had something I’d like to talk over with you, and Sera,” he added casting his eyes about. “If she’s…” He didn’t have time to finish. In one blurred moment a small figure had dropped over the railing from the second floor and crashed into him. He had time to shift enough that he could counter an attack. 

Sera, however, favored an unusual method which he was unable to resist. In moments he found himself standing, but with a delighted elf wrapped around him in a full body hug, Bull’s hand removed as the Qunari had stepped back and abandoned him to his fate. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. “I’m happy to see you too,” he chuckled. 

Honestly, he should have known better. The punch, when it came, thudded against his upper arm more than hard enough to bruise and with enough force to send him stumbling -- just as Bull’s hearty greeting had. “Um…” Fitz rubbed at his smarting arm and looked at the scowl on Sera’s face with mild confusion.

“You’ve been gone too long, you butt!” Sera snapped, punching him again.

“Ow! Sera!”

“Oh shut it!” She shoved him, stepped back and folding her arms. “I see how it is. Comin’ and goin’ to see Leliana but not time for us lot over here. You deserve all the punches. Maybe a kick.” She looked like she was actually considering it and Fitzwilliam took a step out of range to save his shins. He hoped she planned to go for the shins…

But the grouchy look on the elf’s face disappeared, bursting into a wide grin and bright laugh. “You’re here now, though. Finally decided to pay us a visit, yeah?”

“If a visit means lots of drinking and some advice from the two best spies I know,” Fitzwilliam said, rubbing the sting out of his upper arm. “Then yes -- a visit.” He tried to smile but he probably looked a great deal more nervous than he wanted to. It was hard to disguise his emotions from his friends at the best of times. Now, with all the uncertainty and turmoil he felt? Well, it was clear they saw right through him. 

“I’ll get the drinks, Boss. Itty bitty, should we go to yours or mine?”

Sera rolled her eyes. “ _ Mine _ . His smells like… well, him.”

Bull just laughed, large palm coming to rest atop Sera’s head and ruffling the straw coloured mess of hair into more disarray. “And yours has cushions.” He smirked over at Fitzwilliam. “I like the pink ones.”

“Gave him one of his own.” Sera batted at Bull’s hand, looking for all she was worth like a grouchy kitten -- enough so that Fitzwilliam had to stifle a laugh at the sight. He didn’t want another bruise to match the one blossoming on his arm. “Ay! Stop it, Arsefeatures!” She wiggled out from under Bull’s hand. “Drinks. Go. Shoo or something.”

She waved her hand towards the bar before snagging Fitzwilliam by his jacket sleeve and towing him towards the stairs, Bull’s loud laughter trailing behind them.

It was only a handful of moments after they’d made their way upstairs -- Sera rambling on about the Jennies and arrows in a way that reminded him of an excited toddler and throwing cushions about -- that Iron Bull ducked into the room and put three glasses and two bottles of alcohol on the small round table.

At the best of times Sera’s quarters were cozy. On the many occasions he had visited Fitzwilliam had felt, very keenly, that he was an enormous man when compared to the smaller elf. Now, with three people in the apartment, one of whom was  _ actually _ an enormous man, they were dancing on the edge where cozy met cramped. 

Thankfully, Iron Bull, who was used to needing to fit into spaces not at all made with his height and girth in mind, shot him a grin and a wink before tucking himself into the far corner. A corner in which all of the pinkest pillows had conspicuously taken up residence. 

“So, Boss.” Was Bull hugging a cushion to his chest? Fitzwilliam blinked, taking in the absurd sight for a moment before shaking his head. He’d been too long away from his friends if their antics were at all surprising to him. “What do you need us for?”

Fitzwilliam helped himself to a drink, indulging in a long pull before squeezing his eyes shut and blurting, “I have a crush on a elf who might be spying on me and Dorian and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“An elf?” Fitzwilliam might have wilted under the look of disappointed disbelief in Sera’s face if it didn’t look like she was also about to start cackling with laughter. “In Tevinter? What you find a pretty slave and thought you’d get your end in?” At Fitzwilliam’s distressed noise, she rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know. C’mon I don’t think you’re like that. But where’d you find yourself an  _ elf _ in Tevinter?”

“Itty has a point.” Bull’s eyebrow quirked. “‘Vints aren’t known for letting elves a free leash. Not enough to be a spy.”

He ducked his head into his cup and drank more. He had a feeling there was going to be a lot of drinking. “He’s an assassin I’ve been working with.” His voice went up at the end, uncertain sounding and presenting the statement like a question. For the Maker’s sake he was the Inquisitor he shouldn’t be acting like this. But, no. Here, with friends, he didn’t have to be. “Dorian thinks… he doesn’t trust him. Thinks he’s become too close too fast. So I’m going to investigate and I need your help to do that.”

“Not trusting assassins is considered a good move.” Bull retrieved his drink, pausing before he threw back a large mouthful to regard Fitzwilliam with a considering expression. “Don’t blame Dorian for not being too happy with things.”

Sera snorted. “Too much jousting not enough thinking, yeah? S’not my area. Assassins and elves and all that shifty dark hidden stuff. Or jousting.” She snickered, reaching for her own drink and prodding Fitzwilliam in the shin with her toes. “Whatcha need me for, anyways?”

“There has been no jousting,” Fitzwilliam sputtered, cheeks flushing. He twisted his lips and considered her question. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Sera,” he said slowly. “But you don’t think like other people.  _ That’s _ what I need you for. Also,” he continued in a reluctant mumble. “I might need you to smack me if I’m being stupid.”

The back of Sera’s hand thumped against his chest and then the flat against the back of his head. “You’re being stupid.” She grinned. “Crushes on assassins you don’t know? Stupid! Where’s he even from, huh?”

Bull laughed but his smiled turned downright affectionate at Fitz’s pout. “It’s best to assume she’s gonna be smack happy, Boss.” He took another long pull from his cup. “Seems to me, like what you’re really asking is how do I spy on a spy, am I right?” Fitzwilliam nodded. “Well then, no matter what she says Sera  _ will _ be helpful. She’d been spying on me for weeks when she got here.” He winked at her with his good eye. She rolled hers. 

“I had questions. Important questions.” Sera waved her hand but her shoulders squared and her chest puffed up in just a little display of pride. “But whatever. S’what it was. Now we gotta help this one with his problems like he didn’t run off to Tevinter and got himself into stupid shyte again.”

“Yes please,” Fitzwilliam agreed. Maker, but Sera had a way of making him feel like the little brother that couldn’t stop fumbling about. “Crushes aside, he’s got me wildly outskilled here. I need to figure out how to get information on him without him finding out. Just enough to know if Dorian’s got the right idea or not. He seems like he genuinely wants to help but… well, he’s an  _ assassin _ .”

“Have to say, you’re not giving us much to work with here.” Bull considered his drink for a moment, paused for another pull before gesturing at Fitzwilliam with the cup. “ _ You’re _ an assassin and you’re too damn trustworthy.”

Sera giggled, that familiar, wild burst of laughter tugging at Fitzwilliam’s own lips in response despite the flush painting itself across his cheeks at Bull’s words. “You gotta know something about him. More than he’s an elf and an assassin and you wanna shag him, right?”

“I guess so,” Fitzwilliam sighed. “He’s Dalish.”

“Uuuuuuugh, an elfy elf?!” Sera pulled a face. “What’s one of those doing out of their precious trees and in the city?”

“I don’t know, Sera,” Fitz groussed. “That’s kind of the point.”

“Well what  _ do _ you know?”

“If you let him talk, he might tell you.” Bull pointed out, amused and affectionate and smirking.

“Pssshh.” Sera slumped back onto the cushions. 

“He’s Dalish,” Fitzwilliam tried again. “But he’s never talked about his clan or where he comes from. That might just be to keep his identity hidden, but I don’t know. I get the feeling he never talks about them. Maybe he was exiled? I know he’s only been in Tevinter a short time. Less than two years, certainly, given what he knows about the political situation currently. His knowledge is extensive on current events, but doesn’t extend back too far.”

“Don’t know much about the Dalish.” Bull offered. “Only the bits and pieces Dalish has talked about sometimes. No Dalish clans in Tevinter or Par Vollen. Some Dalish become Viddathari. Not many, but some. You have to do some bad shit to be exiled from a clan, I know that much.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Probably not exiled then. Left voluntarily? Or, I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair, mussing it. “Do the Dalish have spies?”

“Like I said, don’t know much about the Dalish.” Bull continued and Sera shrugged expressively, but stayed silent. Surprisingly. “Elves becoming assassins, yeah. Elves becoming spies - had enough of them in the Ben Hasrath. They’re suited for it. Haven’t heard about the Dalish even needing spies.”

“They’re too busy being snobby pricks.” Sera muttered. “So much better than the rest of us. Even  _ Solas _ hated them and he was all ‘elf pride and ancient worlds and I’d rather sleep and be creepy and weird’.”

“If he’s in Tevinter it’s because he wants to be.” Bull went on like he’d not even heard Sera. “It’s a weird place for a Dalish to go, Boss. He wants to be there, it’s for a damn good reason.”

“That’s a fair point.” He let his fingers trace the rim of his cup. “As far as I can tell he’s trying to single-handedly take down the slave trade in Tevinter.”

Bull let out a low whistle and Sera leaned forward, suddenly a lot more interested.

“He’s fighting for the slaves?” She asked. “Doing something for the little people?”

A smirk pulled at his lips. “Thought that might pique your interest. Our last mission we saved dozens of elvhen children destined for… well, everything you know slaves are for in Tevinter.” His smiled softened as he spoke. “Three pens. The youngest could barely walk, they were sweet and scared and Fel calmed them with little effort. Almost like he was practiced with caring for little ones. Then again, I guess the Dalish are used to sharing that responsibility. The eldest and prettiest were destined for the brothels.” His lips twisted. “They were more wary.” He sighed, thinking of how unwilling they were to come with him and how beautifully Feladara had managed to get them to come with them to safety -- how he had  _ understood _ them. The next sigh was decidedly more affectionate. 

“You’re completely gone on him!” Sera cried, jabbing a finger at Fitzwilliam - making a loud smooching sound and leaning forward with a ridiculous flutter of eyelashes. “All sighing and mushy when you talk. S’almost as bad as it was with  _ Dorian _ .”

“Yeah,” Bull agreed. “Kinda seeing the whole crush thing plain as day, Boss.”

“Super helpful, oh great Ben’hasrath,” Fitzwilliam grumbled. “Truly superior powers of observation.”

A quirked eyebrow and a wide grin was his answer. “I’m hearing a lot about how much you like him and what you don’t know about him. Not much about why he might being spying on you.”

“Yeah, sure Dorian isn’t just all twisted silky underthings cause you’re mooneyes about someone else?” Sera snickered. 

“I’m sure,” Fitzwilliam said. “That’s not how our relationship works. If he was upset about that he’d say. He’s concerned for my safety. He thinks the elf is getting too close, too quickly and if I’m being objective, I agree. He turned up out of nowhere by contacting my handler and posing as someone with a job. The job was a test, which almost got me killed. Probably would have if he hadn’t stepped in. And then he was all ‘let’s team up!’” When he said it all out loud like that it did sound pretty suspicious. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to think badly of Feladara. “So yes, I’m gone on him, but Dorian’s right. It was all too neat to be a coincidence. He probably has an agenda.”

“He has an agenda.” Bull agreed, leaning forward just a bit from his sprawl and cushions spilling on the floor. “He wouldn’t be in Tevinter if he didn’t. You want to find out if his agenda includes you. Why it would.”

“Makes no sense, though.” Sera shrugged. “He don’t know who you are, right? You’re being all hidden and secretive when you’re off being an assassin, yeah? So why’d he be interested in you if you’re just another assassin?”

“My guess would be because I’ve been picking off Magisters who ordered a lot of slaves,” Fitzwilliam confessed. “He hasn’t come right out and said it, but it would fit with his own work. At least, I’m hoping that’s it.” He went to take a sip from his cup only to find it empty. He reached out and poured more from the bottle. “Because if it’s not, then he knows more about my assassin counterpart than I am entirely comfortable with.”

“If he’s all about freeing the slaves, makes sense you’ve caught his eye if you’re about dealing with the arses that are buying them.” Sera tilted her head, considering. “Don’t need to know who you are to want to get you on side.”

“From what you’ve said, Boss, he’s springing slaves out from under ‘Vints noses and living to keep doing it.” Bull reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink. “You said he’s got you outskilled so you’ve worked with him enough to get some idea of what he can do. Lay it out for us here. What skills does he have?”

A long, slow whistle left his lips. “That’s a long list. I’ve really only seen him in stealth and disposal, but he’s damn good. He has deft fingers too. Picked my damn pocket.” He chuckled affectionately and took a drink. “But he’s a whirlwind when he fights. I’ve seen him take down half a dozen targets without batting an eye and men easily three times his size. The only thing I’ve see him struggle with is magic users and even then only the entropy mage gave him any real grief.

“He runs the rooftops of Minrathous as if he were moving through a forest on a hunt. Hard to see, harder to hear.” Fitzwilliam tried not to sound like a lovesick adolescent listing off admirable qualities but the truth of the matter was that Feladara was a  _ force _ . He did what he did very very well. “I haven’t been with him on any intel gathering missions,” he pressed on, “so I can’t attest to  _ how _ he gets it, but he’s yet to be wrong, so I’m betting he’s good at that too.”

“Skills like that don’t just happen. He had to get them, had to train somewhere. With someone.” The sparkle of amusement in Bull’s eye made it quite clear Fitzwilliam hadn’t managed to keep all the lovesick admiration from his voice. Still, Bull’s interest had been captured, that much Fitzwilliam could see. “You don’t just decide one day ‘I’m going to free the slaves’ either.”

Sera snorted. “Don’t know any Dalish who want to do anything but hide in their trees. Something got up his arse if he left that behind and went to Tevinter.”

“Look into how he got his skills. Why he might be in Tevinter. If he’s after you for some reason, it’ll come out when you work all that shit out.”

He didn’t like the sound of that at all, but it was good advice. Fitzwilliam nodded thoughtfully and stared into his drink. “He can’t be that old,” he mumbled to himself. “Younger than I am certainly. Around 24 years, maybe? How long does it take to build skills like that, even training relentlessly. A decade or more?”

“He started young.” Bull agreed. “Real young, if you’re placing his age right. Don’t know many parents that’d let their young go off to train to be an assassin. How did you know he was Dalish? He tell you?”

“Vallaslin,” Fitzwilliam said, lifting a finger to trace down his forehead to the bridge of his nose. “Just here. Mythall, I think.”

“Huh. Pretty sure they don’t get that til they’re considered adults right? Heard Dalish mention something like that.” Oh yes, Bull was definitely curious now. “So he’s training to be a spy and assassin while with his clan. I dunno, Boss. I’m starting to think Dorian is right about this. Really right.”

“Don’t know any Dalish who’d want to be in Tevinter no matter  _ what _ .” Sera shook her head. “This one’s up to something. Good something, bad something. Bit of both, I dunno. Something.”

Fitz shot her a half-smile. This was not what he wanted to hear, but clearly he’d needed to hear it. “Yeah. Dorian’s usually right about things,” he agreed. Gulping the liquor, the harsh burn of it helped clear his head. “I’m going to have to find out what, then.”

“See if you can find out where he was before Tevinter. He got an accent or anything? Said anything about anyone outside of Minrathous? Met with anyone?” Bull took a long pull of his drink and reclined back in his usual sprawl. “Be your best place to start.”

“Accent is vaguely Marchian. Not as thick as it might be if he were born and raised in one place, so I’d assume his clan was one of the more social ones. Moving around and meeting with other clans at the very least.” Fitzwilliam tapped his finger on the cup and thought. “He’s hasn’t mentioned names of any associates, but he did take me to meet with the smugglers when we got the slaves out of the city.”

“He’s working with smugglers?”

“More people he works with, easier it is to find someone who will talk ‘bout him.” Sera added.

“Rivaini woman was the captain. There was an elf with her, darkish skin, covered in bright white tattoos, cranky as the Void. They were a… singular pair. Seemed they’d made the trip several times before, but it will be a long while before they’re back.” He sighed and slumped back into the soft pillows, the alcohol finally relaxing him some. Or perhaps it was due more to the fact that they were making a bit of progress, no matter how small, on unraveling the mystery that was Feladara.

“Give what you know to Red.” Bull gestured with his cup towards where Leliana and her own spies resided. “He’s not just freeing slaves - he’s organised. Organised means some kind of operation. Could be a small thing but I’m betting it’s not. I recognise the description of those smugglers from listening to Varric on the road. If they’re who I think they are, you’ll be wanting to talk to him.”

“There’s a Jenny in Tantervale, ‘nother in Kirkwall. If he was doing spying or assassining in the Free Marches - kind you’re talking about. Helping people ‘stead of looking for coin. Then they might have used him before.” Sera shrugged. “Or know him. I’ll ask.”

“Keep the investigation going here, you don’t do anything different with him than you’ve done already there.” Bull added. “He’s as good as you’re saying he is, he’ll know you’re on to him.”

“Thank you.” Fitzwilliam fixed Sera first with a sincere, lingering smile that was bound to make her uncomfortable, but he did it all the same. 

“Pssh, yeah, whatever.” Fitzwilliam’s lips twitched as Sera’s cheeks pinked and she bit her lip, shoving him hard enough to push him sideways. “Turn that face off or point it somewhere else.”

The toe of his boot pushed her back some, but he did indeed “point his face somewhere else.” He turned to Bull, smiling fondly, but a bit more sheepishly. “And you, Bull.” He bobbed his head in a nod. That one made  _ his _ cheeks pink. He had an… involved relationship with Bull and while complicated it had been invaluable. As his advice always proved to be. 

“Ugh no, that’s worse!” Sera cried, pushing Fitzwilliam again. “Now you’re mooneyes over  _ him _ . Go be gross somewhere else and come back before you go. Say goodbye this time, arse.”

“Fiiine,” Fitzwilliam laughed. He reached behind his back and placed a small cloth parcel on the table before standing to take his leave. “Those are for you, Sera. Bull and I will take our mooneyes elsewhere.” He darted head head down and dropped a kiss atop her head before dodging out of the reach of yet another punch thrown his way.

He didn’t quite manage to dodge the pillow she hurled at him, feeling it impact the back of his head as he slipped through the doorway.  He almost caught the second in the face as he turned around, leaning to the side just in time to feel is sail past his ear and land with a muffled thump on a table behind him. Bull’s raucous laughter joined Sera’s grumbles and complaints, the warrior stooping down to exit the room just as Sera opened the package sitting on her table.

“YES!” She crowed, immediately diving in and plucking out a cookie to shove into her mouth. “Oh these are good!”

His head tilted back, displaying his self-satisfied smirk to Bull. “She’s easy to please,” he laughed. “All that  _ complaining, _ ” he raised his voice, throwing it back over his shoulder to make sure Sera heard him. “But give her a bag of cookies and she goes all gooey!”

“Shut it!” Her voice was muffled with cookie crumbs and Fitzwilliam snickered.

“Got a moment, Boss?” Bull wasn’t laughing anymore and it pulled Fitzwilliam up short. 

“For you?” He attempted a cheeky smile, a bit of flirtation, but wasn’t sure he pulled it off. The next word came out more sincere than he’d intended and a great deal less playful. A somber Bull had that effect. “Always.” He gestured for Bull to lead the way. 

Fitzwilliam was surprised when Bull lead them past his usual haunt in the corner of the main floor of the tavern. Instead he took him outside and around the corner where the practice dummies stood. No one lingered nearby, the nook relatively quiet and abandoned for the moment. His brow furrowed and he looked up in obvious concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Look, Boss. I know you’re a trusting guy, but… well, I have to say -- I agree with Dorian.” He was reluctant, the way one might break bad news to a loved one, words coming out terse, but not harsh. “You lead with your heart most times, that’s a rare and special thing. But not always smart.”

He out a long sigh. “I know what you’re both saying. I understand it. I’m doing something about it. But…” How did Fitzwilliam explain what he just  _ knew _ . Somehow, despite it all. Despite very real and very understandable concerns, he trusted Feladara. And how that trust...it was damn near unshakable at the moment, it seemed. He couldn’t explain it to  _ himself _ . How could he begin to explain it to anyone else - even someone as insightful as Iron Bull. Shoulders slumping, he ducked his head as he repeated. “I’m doing something about it.”

A single thick finger reached out, curling under his fallen chin and urging his head back up. “Fitzwilliam,” Bull said softly, eyes shining with affection and something fierce -- loyalty? Protectiveness? “Do you need me to come to Tevinter?” The offer took the breath right from his chest. Iron Bull was terrified of the Warren, of the Fade in general really, but the Warren  _ especially. _ “I’ll come if  _ you _ need me to. Not the Inquisitor. You.”

His chin quivered. He’d been intending to say no. To tell Bull it was a much-appreciated offer but he would be okay. But suddenly, with all the pretense tossed away, he found himself unable to craft the lies. Eyes welled with unshed tears and he nodded. Bull pulled him to his… well, abdomen, given the height difference, and wrapped his arms around him. “Then I’ll come.” They stood like that for a long while, bodyheat mingling until he wasn’t entirely sure where he ended and Bull began, but eventually Fitzwilliam pulled away. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Bull let out a low chuckled that practically reverberated in Fitzwilliam’s chest. “For what, Boss? Needing someone?” Fitz shrugged. “Don’t be stupid. We all need help sometimes. You told me that.” A lopsided smile tugged at his lips. 

“Do you,” Fitz hesitated, worrying his lip between his teeth. Bull fixed him with a look and he sighed. “I was just wondering if maybe you’d come see me tonight?”

He thought the question had Bull looking just a little bit besotted but it could have just been the slight smile. “Yeah, Boss. I think I could do that for ya. I’ll come when you’re done doin’ the rounds.”

“How will you know I’m done?” 

Bull quirked a brow as if Fitz had asked a particularly stupid question before poking himself in the chest with a single large digit. “ _ Spy. _ ” 

“Oh, right.” Fitzwilliam blushed and ducked his head. “Well, I’m going to go now before I make an even bigger fool of myself.”

“You better come back again while you’re here,” Bull said seriously. “Or Sera will throw bees into your room. And since I’m staying there with you, I’d prefer she didn’t.”

It was unavoidable, Fitzwilliam’s watery voice broke with sudden laughter and he bobbed his head in agreement. “I’ll be back. Tell Sera I hid more cookies on the roof.” He went up on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Bull’s sternum, the highest point he could reach unassisted, before turning and jogging toward the keep. 

Bull’s laughter followed him all the way up the winding rookery stairway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors’ Note:  
> R: Okay, well that was delightful. Much better than slogging through ch 10.
> 
> E: Any time spent with Sera and Bull is delightful. I’ve gotta admit, it was /really/ good writing them again. And seeing them in the story.
> 
> R: I missed them too. Even if we do have really lovely things planned for them all. In 100 years, if we keep going at this rate *laughs*
> 
> E: Yeeeeeah. *sheepish grin* We’re going to do our best to get these chapters up on the regular instead of the grab basket schedule that’s kind of happened recently.
> 
> R: *nods lots* We can do it. Got tons done already! And exciting things on the horizons. Things are really going to get moving. 
> 
> E: Oh yeah. So much is about to happen and happen quickly. Be prepared for the plot to begin climbing the hill to the start of this rollercoaster ride. Free fall is soon. *nods lots too*
> 
> R: So… yeah. I guess that’s it. We’ll try to be better about regular updates, exciting things are coming, and woo!
> 
> E: *snickers* I think that sums it all up nicely.
> 
> R: *smiles* shush you. *pokes*
> 
> E: Never in a million years. Until next chapter, dear readers!
> 
> R: Tata!


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

Fitzwilliam was not looking forward to this particular conversation. He liked Leliana, even enjoyed visiting with her outside of Council meetings during these trips but… well, she was an excellent spy. He had no doubt that if there was some sinister story behind Feladara she would either find it or point him to it and that terrified him. Partly because, yes, he didn’t want to lose his new friend but also because if Dorian was right and Feladara could not be trusted, Fitzwilliam had put them all in danger with his crush. That would gut him.

And, of course, there were other stresses left lingering from the earlier council meeting. The new rifts opening with increasing frequency, the southern nobles and their “concerns” regarding his choice to go to Tevinter… 

So, perhaps he dragged his feet, taking each step at a glacial pace. Maybe he lingered to look at the sunlight shining into Dorian’s currently empty but much loved alcove. And if he stood at the top of the stairs scratching at the heads of particularly affectionate ravens, well, that wasn’t really going to hurt anything would it?

“I wasn’t aware you missed the birds, Inquisitor.” There was a smile in her voice that Fitz once worried had been lost to her harsh past. Thankfully, it had not. “Or perhaps they are merely a pleasant diversion.”

Fitzwilliam looked up, meeting Leliana’s approach with a sheepish smile -- a child who had been caught out in their dallying. “Is it as obvious as that?” A nearby raven, plumage dark and shimmering with blues and purples, nipped his finger affectionately. 

“You’ve always been a bit easy to read,” Leliana laughed softly as she pulled up beside him. “You would have made a terrible spy.” She reached out and the ravens flocked to her, several at once, to receive her attentions. “Speaking of, how goes your life as an assassin?” 

He didn’t bother to hide the wince her question prompted and she lifted a single eyebrow in inquiry. Fitz sighed. “I had a close call a few weeks ago. It’s forced me to admit that, perhaps, I am not as skilled as I need to be.”

Leliana’s look of curiosity shifted to concern. Grabbing his sleeve she, tugged him toward her desk before pushing him into a chair. “What happened?” She leaned back, settling her backside on the edge of a missive-strewn table, and crossed her arms. 

It was impossible to disguise the amused huff of laughter at Leli’s mother-henning, but he dodged a smack she tried to level at him and told her… well, not  _ everything _ . Not his complicated feelings for the assassin he knew as Feladra, he’d done plenty of that for one day, but enough. When he was done she was nodding, mind whirling with the information he provided. “You need to look into the elf,” she said at last. “I agree with Dorian. His behavior is, at best, suspicious. At worst, dangerous.”

“So you think I shouldn’t let Feladara instruct me?” he couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice. All these people warning him off, so contrary to his own instincts. 

“Oh, of course you should,” Leliana said. “If he’s half as skilled as you’ve made him out to be you should be learning everything you can from him. I’m only advising caution. It’s possible he was testing you with your last mission. A ploy to see if he could trust you when things went sideways. I’m just concerned. If that was his purpose he should have been more aware of you, checked you for injuries. Though, it is possible he just assumed you would be responsible and do it yourself.” The glare she shot at him then was worthy of any matriarch and Fitzwilliam wilted under it as if his own mother had done the scolding. 

“Trust me, Leliana,” Fitz grumbled. “I have been well informed of how stupid I am. I will endeavor to be less wool-headed in the future.”

“Good to hear.” Leli’s tone lightened now that she was assured her message had been received. “I’d be very cross if you vanished do to your own recklessness. And not just because the Inquisition needs you.” It was enough of an admission of affection to quirk his lips into a lopsided smile as he looked up at her. “It would also reflect poorly on me as a teacher.” Her playful teasing always made him feel as if the weight of his mantle had been lifted from his shoulders and he could just be Fitzwilliam. It was, admittedly, rarer with the spy mistress than many of his other companions, given her position as an advisor and member of the council, but they did sometimes find moments like these where they could be, well, friends.

But then he remembered her advice and his hands fell back into his lap, eyes following. He’d purposely not told her much about Feladara, and was reluctant to talk about it too much. If he didn’t say something soon she was likely to poke at him about it. “Tell me more about the nobles.”

Leliana laughed. “Oh no.” She winked. “You’re not getting out of it as easy as that. We’ll talk about the nobles when we’ve settled this elf business. There’s clearly more you aren’t saying.” Fitzwilliam sank down further into his chair. “Come now, Fitz. I can’t offer the advice you’re clearly seeking if you keep evading efforts to talk about things.” Leliana toed at him from her perch against the table. It was the familiar, companionable tone of her voice and use of his name that broke his will to resist. 

“I don’t know  _ how _ to investigate him, Lel.” He sighed, straightening some and running his fingers through his hair for what already felt like the hundredth time that day. “He’s much more skilled than I am, and well, I really don’t have a lot to go on.”

Silence hung between them while Leliana pondered what he'd said. “How much time do you spend with him?” she finally asked. 

Shrugging, Fitz tried to figure it. “Well we’ve only been on a handful of jobs together,” he said slowly. “Spent the hours after drinking at the tavern. But if he wants to continue the partnership after my long, abrupt absence, then I imagine we’ll be working together a great deal.” He furrowed his brow and waited for her to explain. 

After another moment of consideration she bobbed her head. “You’re good at reading people. Not good at lying or pretending,” she laughed softly. “But you have a good idea of why people act the way they act. Can get to the heart of someone, reveal their motivations. Use that.”

“Ugh.” Fitzwilliam let his head fall over the back of the chair and groaned like a petulant child. “What does that even  _ mean _ , Lel?”

“Get to  _ know _ him, you idiot.” His head shot up and he fixed her with what he considered to be a withering glare, but she just smirked in response. “I’m serious. Talk to him, ask him questions. You’ll see when he’s holding back, when he deflects, when he outright lies. I’m sure he’s very good at all of those things. In fact, if you are to be believed, he’s better than you are in most areas that would serve you well in an investigation. But this is  _ your _ strength. You’re good at seeing people for who they are, and that’s a dangerous thing to level at a spy.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Fitzwilliam pinched the bridge of his nose as he pondered. Leliana didn’t have all the facts, and he wondered if he would be able to be objective given how he felt about the elf, but divorced of all that, it was still good advice. He did have a knack for reading people. If he treated this as a mission to learn about Fel, a way to feel him out as person instead someone with a sinister plot and hidden agendas, he might actually be able to learn something. He’d run himself in circles if he only focused on trying to prove the elf was as dangerous as everyone seemed to this he was.

Fitzwilliam stood. He got restless sitting there, talking, when he could be moving around, distracting his brain. And, after all, the rookery was well empty but for the two of them. He could see no reason why he ought not go about the rotunda. He made his way over the feed barrel and lifted the lid. They were clever, the ravens, and more than adept at hunting their own game, but with winter coming in the mountain it was getting more scarce. 

He took a small handful of the offal pellets and began making the rounds, offering a piece to a bird and scratching its head before moving onto the next. Soon Leliana was at his side, though she did not join in his pastime.  

“You’re agitated.” Her words sounded blunt but her smile appeared kind, if not slightly amused. “With so much weighing on your mind, I am not surprised. I think,” She tapped a finger to her curved lips, eyes knowing. “That you’ve not shared all that’s heavy in your thoughts.”

“Do I ever?” Fitzwilliam laughed softly, pausing to give one especially affectionate raven leave to rub up against his hand. Likely a ploy to get more food, but cute none the less. “But the issues with the elf will not be solved by more talking.”

“No?” Her tone was deceptively mild but he knew better than to throw out a tidbit so carelessly lest she latch onto it with determined triumph - carefully disguised though it may be. “And how will they be solved if your thoughts are too full of said elf to think of little else?”

“I hear magic is the answer to most things.” He favored her with a sheepish smile. “But perhaps I’ve simply been too long in Minrathous. It seems to be the cause of, and solution to all of that city’s problems.” 

“And will forever remain that way unless a drastic change befalls it and I’m honestly not sure the world is ready for another upheaval.” She sighed, a flicker of weariness colouring her gaze for a moment, reminding Fitzwilliam he didn’t have the monopoly on exhaustion. On heavy responsibility. He asked a lot of his Spymaster, after all. “But one problem at a time, yes? At least for now. I might not be able to currently assist you with your various other dilemmas but I think there’s still yet more I can help with in regards to your elf.”

“I don’t know that I agree.” Fitz handed another bit of food to the next bird. “But you’re welcome to try.” He would have to do something for Leli while he was visiting. Something to give her a break, something to decompress, to find joy in. She did seem to like pampering. Perhaps Dorian would have some ideas when next he spoke to his lover. “Everyone does seem to be saying more or less the same things. It would be nice to hear something new.”

“Perhaps because they’re looking at it all from vantage points far too close for true perspective.” She seemed to study him for a moment, watching him feed the ravens with an assessing gaze that almost had him squirming. “And you’re very good at saying a lot and very little at the same time. Despite how forthright you are. There is...something about the elf you’ve kept close to your chest and it’s affecting you more than you’re willing to let on.” She held up her hand as Fitzwilliam began to speak. “I’m not asking you tell me. Just that I can see there is far more to this than others may realise.”

His mouth snapped shut and he nodded. Maker, was that ever the truth. He considered what he could say to that, how much he could reveal and when he opened his mouth again he was surprised at what came out. “Have you ever been in love?”

She looked startled for a moment, before her expression smoothed out and all that remained was something old, something pained in the sudden shadows in her eyes. “I have.” She nodded. “Once. A long time ago.”

In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to hug his spymaster. He thought of all the reasons he shouldn’t, of the risks of being too close with your advisors, and then, after careful consideration, he did what he always did. 

The food landed in scatter on the rough wooden floor of the rookery as he dropped it to tug Leli close. He forgot how small she was. She had this way of holding herself that always made her feel bigger than everyone in the room. But right now, she tucked neatly against his chest and he pillowed his cheek atop her head. 

“Oh,” she breathed a soft note of surprise, holding herself slightly reserved in his arms as though she wasn’t sure whether to break free from the embrace or lean into it. For the moment, she did neither. “I should know by now to expect such sudden displays of kindness from you but that was….unexpected.”

“Sorry,” he chuckled. “Just seemed like you could use a hug. I’ll not do it again if you object. I did kind of violate your personal space here.”

“If I objected, I think you’d find you’d have not gotten as far as you did.” She chuckled, leaning a touch closer - just enough for Fitzwilliam to feel the tension drain from her posture though it didn’t erase the distance she maintained between them - how she held herself apart from him. It was a friendly, though reserved embrace and one she still made no move to break free from.

“You know, I hear that a lot.” He laughed softly again. It was easier to talk to her now, without that astute gaze boring into him. “I can’t decide if that means I’m trustworthy or not much of a threat.” A heavy sigh marked the tonal change. He was good at making light, but nothing would be resolved that way. 

“I’ve been in love… well it’s complicated. I thought I’d been in love until I met Dorian. And then those feelings felt so small, in comparison. Now that I have a more complete picture of love -- of hard work and sacrifice and coexistence …” He’d started talking in an effort to make Leliana feel less like she had to talk about her own past, but now he wished he’d kept his thoughts to himself. 

“Are you finding that your perceptions are changing, growing?” She murmured, voice soft and kind. “Or are you experiencing something else - the beginning stirrings of what might become a love just as potent but different?”

“You’re too observant by half,” Fitzwilliam grumbled. “You should consider being a spy. We’re about to have an opening for a Spy Master in the Inquisition.” He could feel Leli’s small huff of amusement but she remained silent. Finally, he released her from the embrace. “I am drawn to Feladara in a way I cannot fully explain.” The admission was hard, but he felt a bit of a weight lift with the words. “Inclined to place trust, to invest in him when reason says I shouldn’t. To protect him above protecting myself. It’s not compulsion, but it’s strong.”

“The heart is a strange creature and it does not always do what the mind tells it too.” Lelli chuffed out a laugh, a sweet sound that spoke of just a hint of teasing as much as it did understanding. “But, I have learned, and have had reminded to me,” she pulled away enough to pin Fitzwilliam with a shrewd but grateful look. “That the head doesn’t always lead us true and the heart can sometimes understand what the head cannot.”

“Did my master of spies just tell me to follow my heart?” Fitzwilliam’s lips kicked up into a lopsided smile. “Am I in one of Varric’s stories?”

“Oh hush.” She extracted herself from his arms, eyes dancing with mirth. “Should I offer to have your elf discreetly taken care of? Ruin a few families reputations with cleverly gathered information while I’m in the area? Would that help right your world once more, Inquisitor?”

He laughed. A real laugh, loud enough to startle the birds into the dry leaf rustle of ruffled feathers. “No,” he sighed, grinning. “I suppose it wouldn’t.” 

“I could tell you what I believe you need to do about this elf,” She watched her ravens take flight and retreat to the rafters, before favouring him with another of those sly smiles. “In fact, I already have. But the truth of the matter remains. You will know what to do when the time comes to do it. Do not let your head overrule your heart, but by the same token, do not let your heart ignore your head. Balance, Fitzwilliam. It will serve you as well in decision making as it does running the rooftops of Tevinter.”

“You make it sound so easy.” He huffed. Perhaps he acted the petulant child but honestly, with everyone expecting so much of him in regards to this investigation - none so more than he of himself - to seek that sense of balance felt impossible. “To use both my head and heart like they’re not constantly in some idiotic battle with each other.”

“Well, when all else fails.” Oh that smile was more than a bit familiar, the small wicked curl of her lips so reminiscent of the elf they’d spent the last however long discussing he felt an ache for missing him. Maker, but there he went proving his own point. His heart seemed wildly out of control where Feladara was concerned. “There’s always falling back on a discrete blade in the dark.”

Fitzwilliam shook his head, smiling despite himself. “And should I need one, Spymaster, I know where to find it.”

“Come then,” she gestured back to her table where sheaves of paper waited. “Now you’ve finally spoken what you needed to on the elf, we can talk of nobles and strange rifts.”

Her laughter at his low groan of distaste was, Fitzwilliam thought as he dragged his feet the entire way over to the headache he knew waited, entirely uncalled for. He’d seen more than enough paperwork for one day and yet, here was more. All with an impending political shitstorm looming in almost each and every page. Those that didn’t contained headaches of a different kind - most likely the new and very strange rifts. Fitzwilliam despaired of leaving the rookery without at least another hundred things to contemplate and deal with. “Okay,” he squared his shoulders and prepared for a different kind of battle. “Lay it on me, Leli.”

She wasted no time, already retrieving the piles of missives from the table. “Which would you prefer? Nobles first or Rifts.”

“Maker help me,” he sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Rifts, I suppose.”

A brief shuffling of the papers in her hands before she held them out for Fitzwilliam to take. “These are all the reports we have currently on the new Rifts opening up all over Thedas. All report the same thing - an increased number of sightings of a strange silver-blue light of a similar form as the previous rifts but lacking in the severity of the tear and in the number of demons. There is the odd sighting of demons but those with any true understanding of the Fade mark the difference being in the increase of spirits instead.” She paused for a moment and allowed Fitzwilliam to take in the information, which he did with a sharp bob of his head. The reports were familiar, easily recognisable from his own experience with the rift he and Dorian found on the outskirts of Minrathous. “The reports of sightings are only increasing in number but as yet there have been no casualties from demon attacks, no possessions. The appearance of the spirits seems mostly benevolent and they don’t stray far from the site of the rift itself.”

“It was the same at the rift Dorian and I dealt with.” Fitzwilliam agreed. “They seemed little more than wisps. Curious but that was about the extent of it. It was…” He recalled how the rift had called on the mark far more than the previously, almost like it was hungry for that connection between the Fade and the magic in his palm. “...different. It pulled the magic from my hadnd more than I really had control over it. Like when I was first learning how to use the thing.”

Leliana’s concerned look did nothing to inspire ease. “Then you are suffering a similar issue to the mages and are experiencing a loss of control of the Mark?”

“Without the constant exposure to the rifts - the previous kind of rifts - I can’t even say for certain how the mark normally behaves these days.” He didn’t like the thought of losing control over it. The very idea of that Ancient magic being uncontained once more sent a chill of foreboding sweeping through him.

“You did more than close rifts with the Mark, did you not?” Leliana leaned forward, gesturing to the palm in question. “You could summon Rift energy, create barriers, as well as opening and closing mini rifts of your own. Can you no longer do these things?”

Fitzwilliam’s cheeks pinked. “I...haven’t really tried? It’s not like I have opportunity to whip off my glove and point the Mark at slavers in Minrathous. I most certainly can’t make assassinations with it. Not without exposing myself.”

“But you are not always in Tevinter, Fitzwilliam.” Leliana reprimanded gently, not as his Spymaster Fitzwilliam knew, but as his instructor and his friend. It only inspired more of the pink to spread, head bowed in sheepishness. “When you are here in Skyhold it would serve you well to keep using the Mark, to note any changes in the abilities it affords you and any new ones that might eventuate. With magic in upheaval, you don’t want to be taken by surprise should something change. Or, Maker forbid, go wrong.”

“You’re right.” Fitzwilliam admitted. “I’ve been lax. I forget, sometimes, that even with the old Rifts closed, with Corypheus defeated that the magic of the Mark hasn’t gone away. That just because I am unable to use it openly in Tevinter doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be using it at all.”

“I am honestly surprised that one of these new Rifts has not opened somewhere close to Skyhold.” Leliana moved on without further comment and Fitzwilliam  _ really _ needed to do something for his Spymaster. She deserved more than just a chance to unwind for all that she did for him. For all her endless patience and guidance. And her gentle reprimands. “Perhaps it would be wise to take Iron Bull and Sera out to test the surrounding areas, see if the Mark has any reaction to any shifting magic.”

“That...is a brilliant idea, Leliana.” He made a mental note to discuss it with Bull and Sera in the morning. They’d not like the thought of going into a potentially ‘uncontrollable exposure to the Fade’ situation but they were people he trusted to be at his back in a way very few others were. And they would stand by him just as they always had. Mind ticking over with plans to do as Leliana suggested, it took a moment for something to click in his mind, draw his attention back to something she’d mentioned just previous. “What do you mean, you’re surprised Skyhold hasn’t yet seen a new Rift?”

“There is a pattern to the appearance of these rifts throughout Thedas.” She inclined her head towards the papers in Fitzwilliam’s hands and he studied them a moment as she continued. “They appear in areas that have seen significant events - usually of immense magical use or bloodshed but certainly not limited to only those according to the reports my agents send me. The largest of these rifts have appeared in areas of great historical significance.” She turned and gestured to smaller version of the great map that rested on the council room table. “The Exalted Plains, The Emerald Graves, Kirkwall, Haven just to name a few. You are more than aware of what those locations have seen over the ages.”

Fitzwilliam nodded, using the picture of the council room map with all its markers -left imprinted in his mind from hours pouring over it earlier in the day - to recall the locations and positions of the rifts reported so far.

“And if history is be believed, with all that Skyhold has seen, you’re surprised it was not one of the first sites of the opening of these new rifts.” He looked up and she nodded in confirmation. “Then it’s even more important I examine our surroundings, see if the mark reacts to any particular places. If we can gain a greater sense of where these rifts are occurring, we might be able to work out  _ why _ .”

“My thoughts exactly.” Leliana agreed. “Until then, we can only keep charting those that do appear and hope you can discover something yourself.”

Fitzwilliam nodded. “Thank you, Leliana. I don’t think I’d have picked up on the correlation between the rifts and the locations they’re appearing in as quickly as you have.”

“And that, Inquisitor, is why I am your Spymaster.” She dipped her head in a cheeky little bow and pulled free a burble of laughter from Fitzwilliam’s throat. “To send out my spies to gather information, to make meaning from it where you can’t. We all have our skills.”

“As always, I make a terrible spy?” Fitzwilliam said with a fond smile, enjoying the bell-like music of her laughter.

“But have a head for retaining the information you hear.” Her eyes twinkled a moment before she held out the second bundle of missives in her hands. “And now, we must talk of the nobility.”

Fitzwilliam groaned.

 

*******

 

Fitzwilliam hadn’t the time, upon his arrival through the Warren, to come to his quarters. He’d taken his notes right to the war room, then scuttled off to see Bull and Sera, then to Leli -- hours spent pouring over endless missives of information gathered on the nobility of Thedas and now, finally, he could breathe. The fire was roaring when he entered his quarters, a plate of food awaited him on his desk, but it just felt colder without Dorian there to share it with him. He flexed his fingers, an attempt to drive off the ache the chill had instilled in them, made all the worse by the still-new flesh on his palm, and went to stand before the hearth. 

So many things to consider, his head spun with them. The shifting opinion of the nobles, the worrisome tears in the fade spreading new rifts all over Thedas, the danger Dorian was in -- increased by Fitzwilliam being here, unable to protect him. It all went on, too many things to process. And even with all of this in his head, he could not kick Feladara out of it. Felt pulled back to Tevinter by it as much as by his bond with Dorian. 

Rubbing at his chest, Fitzwilliam winced. This far away the bond was little more than a vague impression of Dorian’s location somewhere to the north. The point of a compass directing him back to the other half of his heart. He felt oddly empty without that background hum of awareness. 

_ Great, _ he thought,  _ cold and empty. This is going to be just a capital trip. _ And the pain, couldn’t forget that. He worked his fingers again. The right palm he expected to ache, still healing as it was, but the left hurt too, a throbbing like a dull heartbeat. Maybe it was the abrupt shift in climate, messing with all his joints. He could feel it in his knees as well. Probably nothing to be concerned over. Still, he rubbed his hands together before moving to the food. 

Only then, silence broken by a loud snore, did Fitzwilliam realize he wasn’t alone. His eyes shot to the bed, located at the back, unlit end of the chambers. He could just see the glint of firelight on silver-dark skin and a soft smile curled his lips. He hadn’t expected Bull to curl up in his bed and take a nap. It was entirely too adorable. 

Fitzwilliam took the bread he was munching with him and approached the bed. His eyes adjusted well to the dim light and he took a moment to enjoy the view. The subtle shift of muscle as Iron Bull’s breathing moved his body, the silhouette of him on laying on his side, drooling onto Dorian’s pillow and cuddling…  _ Maker _ . Was that one of the pink cushions from Sera’s? A helpless peel of giggles finally woke the Qunari.  

Now he wondered, as he often did, how Bull could sleep so soundly. Every spy he’d ever known slept on that edge just between slumber and waking, always alert and ready for danger. Bull, on the other hand, was dead to the world most of the time. He and Dorian had played more than one game of “what will the Qunari sleep through.” Bull blinked up at him slowly, smiling as his good eye focused on the man at his bed side. 

“Hey there, Boss,” he mumbled. Fitzwilliam continued eating his bread though the giggles did not  _ quite _ abate entirely. 

“Did you bring this?” he asked, brandishing the heel. 

Bull nodded, but still made no move to get up. “I ate earlier, figured you hadn’t had a chance.” 

“Andraste.” He sighed and moved to settle on the side of the bed. He had to push Bull with his backside to get him shove over enough to sit, but the effect was such that when he did, warmth curled around him. Fitzwilliam could feel himself relaxing instantly, leaning back into it. “Does everyone know I’m bad at eating or do you have orders from Dorian.”

Bull let go of the fluffy pink cushion to wrap that arm around Fitz’s waist instead. More warmth. Finally, the chill was being chased away. “Neither.” His voice was still rough with sleep.”I just paid attention. Figured with the way you run about there wasn’t much time left for eating. Gotta assume Dorian takes care when you’re in Tevinter. So it’s my turn now, right?”

“I can take care of myself,” Fitzwilliam grumbled through a mouthful. “I am not a child.”

Rolling his eye, Bull jostled him with his thigh. “Don’t act like one then.” The reprimand came with an all too amused smile.  “People caring about you isn’t really a negative comment on your personality, Boss.” 

“I am effectively chagrined,” Fitzwilliam smirked. “And thank you.” He popped the last bit of bread in his mouth before making an attempt to lie down beside Bull. A single large hand cupping his shoulder halted him. He looked down with a quizzical lift of his brow. 

“Did you eat anything but that heel of bread?” Bull asked. Fitz was sure he already knew the answer and those suspicions were confirmed when Bull grabbed him by his waist as he sat up, effectively putting him on his feet. “C’mon. We’ll sit by the fire and you can shove your face.”

Fitzwilliam grabbed the tray as he passed and arrived at the rug to see Bull sprawled across it.The Qunari grinned up at him and pat the floor invitingly. He sat with his back against Bull once more and the tray on his lap. He’d expected them to launch into conversation, but Iron Bull remained quiet. A large hand wandered, rough fingertips brushing here and there as they pleased, but no words accompanied them. 

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Fitzwilliam broke the silence. “You really think Varric knows the smugglers Feladara is working with?” 

“Been bugging you since I said it, huh?” 

“As usual, you are far too astute.” He shoved a few more pieces of dried fruit past his lips. “Just answer the question,” the muttered around them. 

“Makes sense.” Fitzwilliam’s body swayed under the movement of Bull’s massive shoulder as he shrugged. “It’s a small world, slave smuggling. And even with Varric’s storytelling, a sultry lady pirate and and elf with glowing white tattoos … pretty distinctive. Thought you’d be happy to get some real information, though. Not... “ he gestured wordlessly. 

“I am.” The sincerity of the claim was weakened some by his refusal to look at any spot which might even provide a cursory chance for Bull to catch his eye. 

“Nah.” Bull poked a finger into his side. “You’re worried.” Fitzwilliam remained silent and Bull threw his head back and let out a groan. “C’mon, Boss. You know I hate talkin’ ‘bout this stuff. Don’t make it harder.”

“We could just not talk about it then,” Fitz grumbled, still refusing to look anywhere but at his lap. 

“I’d be happy not to.” The easy gentleness of Bull’s voice was going hard around the edges as his frustration grew. “But I’ve got this little thing where I’ve gone and decided I care about you. Means doin’ things I don’t like doin’. Kinda shitty of you to make it hard on me when I’m trying to help, Fitz.”

“I’m an arse,” he sighed. He put the tray aside, his stomach roiling a bit now that he was  _ thinking _ . “I just… I’m worried that Varric will have things to say that I don’t want to hear. Plus,” Fitzwilliam sighed, leaning back a little more snugly into Bull’s warmth. “If he’s right Dorian will be impossible to live with.”

“More than usual?” He could hear the incredulity in Bull’s voice. 

He didn’t try to stop the small giggle as he smiled sheepishly. “Perhaps just a different kind than usual.”

“But you get why he’s actin’ like this, right?” Bull pushed the tray farther away before wrapping a thick arm around Fitzwilliam’s waist… and ribcage. He shrugged again. “Jus’ think back. When things between Dorian and I changed. When he and I became close.”

Fitzwilliam remembered. He’d been more than a little surprised, actually. Given how they’d been at each other’s throats for the longest time. Even the drunken advances Dorian had made toward Bull in the early days of their relationship made a kind of sense. But when Dorian came to him and explained he’d grown to have feelings for their mercenary friend it took a long talk, several long talks, to bring it into focus. 

After he’d explained, Fitzwilliam understood how it could happen. With all the time they had been spending together to help Dorian work through some fears that still gave him pause, though thanks to Bull, no longer crippled him, it was easy to see. Those moments of vulnerability and tenderness eating away at their differences until they could only see how they were the same. He’d given Dorian his blessing, provided they all talked about it, established some guidelines to follow, and then kept talking to avoid hurt feelings or miscommunication. 

But even with all of that… “I was protective of him. Worried you’d hurt him.” Whispered words that left out more than they said. 

Bull voiced them for him. “And you trusted me. We’re friends. You still worried. Imagine how he must feel. A stranger takin’ your eye like that. Someone you hardly know and he doesn’t at all. How do ya think you’d deal with that?”

Probably not half as well, if he was honest. “It’s not something I can help.” He hated how small his voice sounded. “But I understand what you’re trying to say.”

“Not layin’ blame here, Boss.” Bull’s thumb stroked lightly over where it rested on his hip. “Just think maybe you could stand a reminder of how hard it is...” Bull’s voice trailed off and Fitzwilliam could tell he was well out of his comfort zone now. He tangled their fingers together and squeezed gently. “Protecting people you care about. That’s a tough instinct to fight. It’s why the Qunari don’t have family or friends or spouses. Only the Qun.” 

“Are we still talking about Dorian?” Fitzwilliam tuned back, fixing Bull with a soft smile  and was met by another shrug. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Bull was blushing. “You know you’re always welcome, Bull. He’s been missing you.”

Okay, well now he  _ was _ blushing. There was no disguising that deep pink flush up his neck and across dark cheeks. “Know he’s busy.”

“Still, he needs you.” It was much easier to talk about this than his continued fixation with the elf. “Might be too proud to say so, might be too busy to make the trip, but that doesn’t change anything.” He turned in the circle of Bulls arms until he had spread out alongside, propped up on his elbow. 

“You know, I’ve been trying to do the things you asked me to do. For Dorian. Since you aren’t able to be there all the time.” He laughed a little, trying to take the conversation to more comfortable ground for both of them. “Not sure I’m cut out for it.”

“Ya get in a fight or something?” Tension eased out of Bull’s shoulders as he latched on to the new topic. 

He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I just… don’t enjoy it.” Bull quirked an eyebrow and Fitzwilliam rushed to clarify. “It’s not a sacrifice or anything, to do that for him. I’m happy to if that’s what he needs. I just don’t get the same pleasure out of it as…” 

“When you’re on the receiving end,” Bull finished for him, his voice gone rough with desire. Fitz nodded, unable to look Bull in the eye. “Well,” he pressed on, tucking a single thick finger under Fitzwilliam’s chin and coxing his gaze upward. “I’ll take over while I’m there. And you can get your pretty backside back to enjoying my attentions.”

Breath hitching at the images  _ that _ presented, Fitzwilliam attempted a smile. “I have missed your attentions.” He recalled a time when he and Bull had a very different relationship. But with Dorian as their link, and many nights of friendly drinking and celebration, their dynamic too, had slowly shifted. He hoped Bull was happy with their arrangement. It reminded him of his conversation with Leliana, about the difference in feelings but not in the strength of them. While he and Dorian may share a soul, it didn’t diminish either of their affection for Bull. For his part he knew he and Dorian were better off because of that affection, though he wasn’t sure either of they would go so far as to call it love. 

He didn’t want Bull to leave, he realized. For all his talk of Bull being Dorian’s grounding force, he’d come to rely on him as well. Fitzwilliam was worrying his lip when Bull laughed. It was a soft, enamored sound that most would not expect him capable of. “Just ask me to stay, Boss.” 

“Reading my mind again?” Fitzwilliam asked with a sheepish smile. 

“No, your face. Written all over it. So?” Bull prompted. He was never willing to act on assumption, always demanding to hear it from Fitzwilliam's lips even when, perhaps  _ especially _ when, it was hard for him to say.

“Will you please stay the night?” It was a mumbled, hardly audible question.

“Just tonight?”

Glowering up at him, Fitzwilliam sighed dramatically. “Fine. I would like you to stay with me until we leave. Are you satisfied now?”

“Nope,” Bull smirked, leering as he put a hand on Fitzwilliam’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back pinning him with one large, muscular thigh. “But I’m about to be.”

 

~fin chapter 12~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHORS’ NOTE:   
> E: Sooooooo remember when we said we'd post more regularly? We totally meant starting from this chapter *nods*  
> R: Oh, yes definitely that was the plan alllll along. *rubs back of neck*   
> E: Heeee, yes well. In this chapter you got to see a bit clearer picture of how things work with Bull and the boys as well as how amazing Leli is ;) And coming up there's going to be a whooooole lot of plot and intrigue. And more Fitz getting confused about a certain elf *smirks*  
> R: Heh. Confused, she says. These poor boys, being pulled this way and that by forces bigger and more powerful than they. Some of which we’ll get to see soon. So soon. *bounces excitedly*  
> E: I am so ready for you all to read the upcoming chapters *grins* We're going to take you on one hell of a journey with these boys and everything that's going to happen.   
> R: If we get them done in a timely matter. I… have some smut to write. And more antics with the Skyhold gang before we get Fitzwilliam back home.  
> E: And I've got a lot of magical things to write and a Dorian to shake up *smirks* Oh this is going to be fun.   
> R: I hope they are having as much fun as we are!  
> E: Not sure that's possible ;)  
> R: You’re gross. *pokes* Okay, okay, we should be done with this now, go work on the next chapters! Thanks for reading, darlings!   
> E: Yes, thank you for reading everyone! You're wonderful :)


	13. Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

 

Dorian was not at all pleased with how quickly he concluded his errands. He relied on them to keep his mind occupied during Fitzwilliam’s absence and now he was left sitting in his armchair with a glass of wine and a book that was failing miserably at distracting him. 

_ The practical application of such medicines have been studied with varying degrees of success. An argument could be made for latent healing powers in the healers themselves as much as for the attributes of the plants. _

Huffing, he closed the book and set it aside. He’d read that line three times and lost focus again and again. His busy mind preoccupied itself with too many things to  _ read _ . He needed to be doing something. Anything but this endless filling time. His feet bounced, his fingers tapped. He knew if he didn’t come up with something soon he’d find himself pacing and Dorian soundly refused to pace about, worrying the carpet into threads. He had a brilliant mind, surely he could turn it toward something. More wine would be a good start.

The wine had warmed, he realized with a distasteful twist of his lips. He set the glass aside and stood. If his mind refused to focus on the simple task of reading, perhaps now would be a good time to delve into some mysteries. Tevinter had no shortage of them these days. He bounced on the balls of his feet, energized by the thought. He was, after all, so cautious not to do magic around the mark at the moment, given the effect it had on his magic. If he wanted to test the current state of things with any kind of control now, his lover and therefore the mark in Skyhold provided the opportune moment.

He instantly marked fire magic a bad call, given how many times he had nearly burned down the manor in the last few months. Then again… Dorian held up a hand and allowed the magelight to flicker to life in his palm. Made of fire light, it lacked the heat and destructive properties of fire proper and more related to Mater’s illusionary magic, as far as he determined. Once he had thought that would be the bridging point for him, a gateway into mastering healing magic. If his Mater proved so adept at both talents, surely he could use his own skills with illusionary magic to finally develop more than his meagre healing capabilities. But with no progress, he’d long since given up on that dream. 

The fire flickered blue in his hand, an invitation to dance if ever he saw. It appeared stable enough, but then as one of his most used magics it required very little power. He poured a little more into it just to see what would happen only to jump backward as the light in his hand  _ exploded _ into a shower of brilliant blue sparks. No more chance for panic other than that initial startled leap. The magic fell to the floor and vanished as soon as it hit the carpet. Dorian patted himself down, turning bare arms this way and that and thankfully found no injury. Dots of light fluttered about when he blinked, killing his night vision and well, any vision. At least temporarily. 

Well, one learned nothing from a single, failed experiment and those prone to over-cautiousness suffered a lack of discovery and ingenuity. Nor did they prove any theorems. He needed another attempt, if with a touch more prudence. He squared his shoulders and lifted a hand once more. Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus didn’t strive for brilliance in the face of potential folly. 

This time, he tried to shape the light after calling it up. His mother could have crafted it into something spectacular with ease. A dancing creature of myth, or a ship at sea. That was the bit of intricacy he’d never quite been able to finesse. While the light itself was easy to craft, even easy to cut free from himself and set in place in the waking world, the shaping of it largely eluded him. He managed to shift the magelight from a flickering flame to a five-pointed star, though it took  _ considerable _ concentration. Dorian was just feeling the thrill of triumph when he felt the magic destabilize. This time he managed to squeeze his eyes shut and turn his head away before he was blinded, but he could still feel the violent dispersal of magic as the spell fell apart. 

“That is not what was supposed to happen,” he scolded his open palm. Still, he felt invigorated, eager, even, to learn more. His head spun with theories. So far it appeared that the trouble centred around regulating his power. That without his consent his magic was trying to break through him and into the world at large. The interesting part was that it didn’t appear violent _. _ If it  _ were _ a demon, the forerunner of things in the Fade wanting to leave it, Dorian would expect a battle -- the demon fighting through him to get out. But that wasn’t happening, he could feel it. At least in the cases he’d tried thus far. The energy he was using was… more than it used to be. More powerful, more efficient, more  _ eager _ . Of course he’d relied heavily upon fields of study he excelled at. Fire, primarily. And it was why he never did the same with magics he didn’t quite have a knack for.

“A different discipline, then.” He wiggled his fingers, casting his eyes about the room and muttering away to himself. “Perhaps something small. I could always use some practice with the spirit branch of magic.” He’d not had call to use his necromancy since Corypheus’ defeat. “Or maybe some force magic. If we’re in the mood for something different why not do something Southern.” In the far corner of the room, where he kept his medical kit, he spotted a small, bone spool. Generally he kept all his items perfect arranged in the kit, but this spool awaited a new supply of stitching silk and so had been placed to the side with all the other empties. “Perfect.” He smiled as he approached the display. 

At some point in his life Dorian had come to terms with reality -- he was never going to be a great healing mage. He simply didn’t have the gift for it, his magic taking more after his father’s hot head than his mother’s deliberate, calculated mentality. So he threw himself into the mundane healing arts, studying them and the body as fastidiously as he would any branch of magic. His leap from favouring fire to developing his talent with Necromancy was borne from his passionate study of the body, of renewing flesh. As with all his studies, once he realised he had a knack for it, he delved as deeply as he could. It had afforded him some brilliant discoveries but he longed to do more. To help more people. To actually save lives rather than bring a portion of it back for a time.  

Dorian laughed to himself as he fingered the delicate bottles and instruments. Here he stood, a mage with a gift for destruction who wanted nothing more than to mend. 

He shook his head, snatched up the small bone spool, and moved to the center of the room before holding it up. A bit of effort and he’d suspended it in a bit of force magic. It floated once he took his hand away, quite satisfied with the stability of magic. Until, with that premature thrill of success, the shield imploded and sent the spool rocketing at his head. Dorian ducked, heard it thunk into the wall behind him, and turned to scowl at it. “Fine,” he huffed, straightening his stance as well as his tunic and moving toward where it landed. “We’ll try again.”

It went on and on like that. Repeatedly, just when he felt the joy of success the spell would falter and send the spool soaring across the room. For the first time in a long time he wished he’d chosen a softer material to work with. He’d selected the bone because it was lightweight but tough enough to boil. Tough enough, also, to leave several chips in the wall and threaten several bruises to his person. He was sweating from exertion when he finally put the spool on the table and lifted his glass for a drink. He winced. “Oh, right,” he puffed, glaring at the drink that was  _ still _ warm and distasteful. 

An effort of will and he felt cold frost the metal goblet. Then, abrupt and unstoppable, his magic exploded. He blinked a little as his vision went white, frost flakes falling from his lashes onto his cheeks. Only then did he notice the fine layer of ice entirely covering the room and all its items.

It was as if he had thrown down one of Sera’s ice flasks. Only it wasn’t very thick, more like a late fall frost than anything.  _ Well, _ he considered as he wiggled his mustache back and forth and listened to the ice coating it crackle,  _ at least I’ve learnt something. _ It wasn’t just the power control. If it was his drink would have been the only thing affected. So it also had to do with range, maybe even intent. He lifted the cup to his lips anyway only to discover he’d frozen the drink solid. “Well,” he groused, frowning. “That was a bit colder than wanted.”

Perhaps it was time to try something else. Something that required him to use magic the way other mages did. After all, Dorian knew he was different. Most mages were indelicate. They thrust their consciousnesses into the Fade and took a fistful of power to turn to their purposes. It made one very good at fueling a spell, but not particularly good at crafting one. When Dorian reached for his fire he did not just grab the first bit of fade he could find. He would send his consciousness out into the sleeping world and seek out its places of fire there. Sometimes, as for magelight, it was in the form of a hearth -- warm and welcoming -- an easy power that wanted to assist. When he was in battle he sought out sulfur and magma and pulled them. Mastering them, but at least using them as they were meant to be used. His way, he’d always been told, was dangerous. He risked the molten earth burning his soul out. But he and fire were kin, he understood it, could control it. 

Dorian settled the goblet on the table. Thanks to the Tevinter heat the frost was already melting, clearing patches about the sitting room. He considered remaining there and risking even more damage. If for no other reason than he’d have an excuse to redecorate, but decided against it and moved outside to the garden.

There was a kind of balance to magic. If you had an affinity for destruction, you wouldn’t be a good healer. If you could manipulate air you were less able to shape earth. As far as Dorian had been able to determine all magic, regardless of power or complexity, stemmed from the core elements - water, fire, earth, air and that ineffable something that made life, in all its forms, possible -- that which scholars had come to call spirit. A romantic tribute to the spirits of the fade, no doubt, from whence all magic came. Dorian laced his fingers together and thrust his arms out, cracking the knuckles before letting arms fall to his side and rolling his shoulders. 

He was  _ very _ good with destruction magics. Fire, lightning, even raising gales of wind. Even necromancy, while not a destructive magic per se, lent itself more to mastering death and fear rather than actual creation. He’d worked hard at the others, tried his hand at manipulating plant life, at moving water, at healing, but for all his knowledge he could only manage little things. Because he was unwilling to take his destruction magic and force it into a mold that was the wrong shape. But that was what other mages did and if Dorian was truly going to test the limits of what was going wrong with magic in Tevinter, he needed to do as the Vints did. 

The vining flowers on the garden wall would do nicely. Dorian called on his fire, by far the easiest for him to grasp, as well as the most powerful, and slipped it into the vine. The plant started thrashing wildly, objecting to the intrusion, but enough will could see anything bend to it. He focused, using fire to move the vine until it was swaying almost hypnotically, a brilliant purple bloom against the navy moonlit sky. Everything seemed to be in order. No explosions of power, not even the wilting Dorian anticipated from forcing heat into a plant. Of course, he utilised very little of his power. It was time to go bigger.

Another vine rose to sway with the first as Dorian walked his way across the soft garden moss with careful steps. It was almost a dance, his feet and hands moving to manipulate the plants, mirroring their sway. Soon, a mass of flowers and vines wriggled over the entire wall and Dorian had expended a great deal of power to create the display. He could see  _ why _ other mages prefered this method -- the feeling of all that power bending to your will without taking the time to hunt out its match within the Fade to fuel it. Harnessing magic in it’s raw form and making it do as he wished. Dorian was delighted, feeling downright proud of himself when he felt something twisting about in his magic. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something that tore his control away and broke free into the plants. 

As one, the flowers turned their faces to him, fixing on him as if they had eyes a moment before they flew forward. Dorian quickly backed away, calling fire to his hand but waiting to hurl it. After all, the vines couldn’t be all that long. They’d reach the end and he’d be safe, able to observe. Of course, that was  _ not _ what happened.

The vines, stronger now than they had any right to be, pulled free of the trellis and darted for him. He was too slow and one tangled about his leg. Another made its way around his arm. Both tightened painfully, squeezing as they tugged him toward the wall. The wall full of sentient plants. The wall full of sentient plants he’d created. 

“This is either going to be a terrible death,” Dorian grumbled as he tried to shape his now-slippery fire magic into a tool, “or a hilarious story. If, you know,” he grunted, “I live to tell it.” 

It was no use. Too much of his power was still wrapped up in the plants and try as he might he couldn’t pull it free. He could use a knife to cut himself free, but he wasn’t a crazy person and so didn’t exactly keep weapons about his person when he was in for the night, safe and sound in the manor. His mind quickly ran through the options.  _ One, cut free - no blade. Two, fight free - vines are preternaturally strong. Maker, but that wall is getting close. _ Dorian dug in his heels fighting harder, with all of his considerable strength to slow his progress.  _ Three - use magic.  _ It sputtered in his hand.  _ Magic is broken that’s why you started this experiment in the first place, you madman.  _ More vines reached out. The wall grew nearer still, and they had no issue coiling about his neck and torso. “Four,” he horsed out as the vine tightened, cutting off his air. “Pray and get very very lucky.”

Eyes closed as Dorian realized he didn’t even have time for that. He was going to die in the garden, strangled by a plant he animated, while Fitzwilliam was away. Well, if that wasn’t a lesson on hubris he didn’t know what was. He could only  _ just _ feel Fitzwilliam through the bond, the impression and direction of him and little more, and latched onto that as his vision tunneled to a fine point. He was out of air, out of time. 

And suddenly he could breathe.

Dorian blinked his eyes open. He wasn’t sure if he’d passed out but as his vision focused he realized he lay on his side. Collapsed in a heap and attempting to pull in desperate gulps of air. Rolling over he felt the sticky sap wet through his clothing. Vines crunched under his weight, but they’d all fallen to the ground, limp and lifeless once more. He lay on his back, looking up at the night sky as his chest heaved in an effort to replenish the air it had been debted. 

He sat up, after a short while, propping himself onto his elbows and surveying the scene. The vines, only moments ago alive and dangerous, lay innocuous once more. What happened? Did they simply expend the energy he’d infused them with? No, that didn’t seem likely, not with the sheer volume of power available to him. One vine, close to the wall, seemed to have been cut. Dorian struggled upright and crawled over to it. He didn’t make a habit out of being on the ground, but honestly he was still a bit shaky. 

It  _ had _ been cut. Down low, near where it sprouted out of the soil. He was curious as to who had cut it, admittedly, but he was more curious about if that was why the plant had stopped. There was no reason why a wound should have done any real damage to the spirit inhabiting the plant -- and yes, Dorian was forced to admit some kind of spirit had broken out and into the world through his magic. The power wasn’t likely to leak out of the plant either, so the cut, as interesting as it was, really had nothing to do with where the power had gone. And it was. Gone. Not a whisper of it left. 

Dorian sat on the soft green moss, tangled vines strewn haphazardly about him, and pondered all the mysteries this night had bred. He’d begun this experiment looking for answers and instead found only more questions. 

He got to his feet, an indeterminate amount of time later, and carded his fingers through hair that had long crossed the threshold from unkempt into mussed.The warm fire and candlelight of his chambers called to him, and he moved forward, drawn to the comfort they promised. “I,” he declared to the world at large, stumbling on shaking legs, “need a stiff drink.”  

*****

Two weeks. He’d actually counted the days - like a lovesick fool pining away, plucking flower petals and spending days sighing forlornly as he gazed off into the distance. For all that preoccupation with Ataashi’s absence gripped Feladara’s mind, he might as well be. A couple of missions, a few drinks, some conversation and a whole lot of flirting and already his thoughts shifted in the man’s direction when deprived of his presence. Was that all it took to adle his mind? Have him watching tavern doorways in the hopes the baby dragon would walk through it with a smile bright in those damnable baby blues. Have him make enquiries amongst associates to see if they’d spotted the newest assassin amongst them out and about - heard of any kills that seemed meticulously planned in the manner Fel knew marked them as his. Have him running the rooftops to keep an eye out for a sign of that expensive costume of his, travelling away from the dockyards he knew so well up in the upper ring where the nobility made their homes. Where he knew the baby dragon disappeared towards after work was done. He had work to do, plans to carry out and information to gather and Creators, but distance was needed to keep objective. Why in the gods names was he haunting the high borns’ manors like if he stumbled upon just the right one, he’d find Ataashi.

He told himself it was to continue gathering more knowledge on the assassin -  discover the mysterious place he called home somewhere up in the wealthiest part of the city. He’d long suspected Ataashi had ties up there and the gossip amongst Minrathous’ assassins said he was on retainer for one of the Magisters. A personal assassin. Some spoke further still of him having a high born lover. There were a handful of Magisters who’d take a male lover and Feladara spent enough time liberating information for the upper ring to know where they lived. He had his suspicions on whom to watch most closely. 

But he’d had not seen hide nor hare of Ataashi, even here where an assassin who favoured the garb of a storybook hero would stick out like a sore thumb. Feladara couldn’t shake the feeling that some form of foul play was afoot. Waiting for an attack that never came, wondering at the ridiculous sense of betrayal he couldn’t quite shake. That an assassin, clearly a novice and definitely new to the area, could disappear so entirely? It was suspicious and unsettling.

He wasn’t worried. 

He  _ wasn’t _ .

_ This is pointless _ , he sighed and slowed his run to a stop. Perched himself high atop the surrounding walls of one of the more grander estates atop the hills. No wards on the walls, not even the gates and a quick stones throw of a fun little flask that reacted to magic told him all the wards were centred on the manor itself in an exceptionally economical and practical use of power. Without stretching them to cover everything, the power centred on protecting the buildings themselves was far stronger. The wards far superior.

So he was at the Pavus estate then. The Pavus matriarch was known for her impeccable control and her son for his...unique ways of thinking. Combined with the pragmatic manner with which the Pavus patriarch was known for wielding his magic, the way in which they crafted their wards seemed fitting. If not frustrating and much harder to breach. Which was the entire point of course but made for poor thieving and Feladara got a great deal of his information from pilfering within the homes of the elite.

Feladara wasn’t there for a touch of light fingered browsing and so it didn’t matter a great deal whether he could break the Pavus’ wards or no. And there was no sign of his errant partner so lingering there would sooner see him spotted than anything else. He was acting like a fumbling novice and it had to  _ stop _ .

He stood, readying himself for a return to streetside when every hair on the back of his neck stood up and a shiver crawled its way down along his spine with a frigid touch. Feladara froze place, fingers twitching towards the daggers at his back as every sense he possessed screamed of danger. Of the unseen threat. A deep breath, the search for calm as much as it allowed him to sink deeper into what his instincts told him. He could feel it. So strong he could almost  _ taste  _ it. That moment before lightning struck where the air felt charged, when your skin prickled and the scent of ozone filled your nostrils.

Magic. Powerful and uncontained.

Running would have been the better option and yet his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in one of the many garden courtyards in the Pavus estate -- drawn almost against their will to find the younger Pavus, who stood before a trellis covered in winding vines. Just in time to see them come to life and snake out with deadly purpose. To see Pavus fight to control the magic he’d obviously used to bring the plant a modicum of sentience and just like the whispers around Minrathous had told him, the powerful mage was struggling with his magic just like so many others.

He froze with indecision as the vines wound about the mage’s frame and began to encase him in their unrelenting grasp. When Pavus began to disappear within the seemingly endless coils of winding greenery and dragged from his feet. Feladara took a step - to offer aid, to run away it didn’t matter because a voice stilled him in his tracks before he completed the decision.

_ It’s wrong! _ It cried, screamed, thundered, begged.  _ All wrong, so wrong. He made us wrong! Broken and wrong! _

Feladara’s breath punched from his lungs as the twisted form ghosted upward from the thrashing tangle of vines. A perversion of a humanoid shape, writhing just as the plant did and pulsing with a sickly light shot through with flame. _ Wrong!  _ Came the continued cry. The accusation.  _ All wrong! _

_ These fucking Vints and their perversion of magic _ , Feladara snarled, watching as the spirit - for that’s what it was - strangled Pavus to death with his own magic. As it screamed in agony for being made to do something it was not intended to do. A spirit of verdure forced to become flame.

When the spirit turned it’s gaze, rose up and stared  _ straight at him _ , Feladara stared right back - unable to do anything else. Out of sympathy, out of respect for something once noble and pure tainted due to arrogance. His heart damn well ached for this poor being who endured agony because of a stupid mage’s hubris. 

He’d had  _ enough _ . Of this place, of Magisters and Vintish mages. Of this whole fucking day.

Again that charge on the air, the moment before lightning hit but oh if before he stood nearby to the strike now he stood in the middle of the storm. A flash of light exploded behind his eyes, his body swaying towards the tiles and when he blinked the dancing dots of colour away and steadied his feet the vines lay limp and Pavus was crawling his way free - panting and gasping for air. Feladara wasted no time in turning tail and running, letting stumbling feet carry him far away from that garden and the uncontrolled magic raging within it. Pavus was a nightmare waiting to happen - power fueled by arrogance and Feladara wasn’t going to stay around to become victim just as that spirit had. His search for Ataashi within the upper circle could continue at a later time when his heart didn’t pound in his skull and his skin didn’t still crawl with that lightning touch of too much magic.

Creators, he needed a stiff drink.

  
  
  


A/N:

E: Okay, so. Life. Life hit me  _ hard _ these past few months and unfortunately this story was one of the many things that suffered because of it. I hated not being able to work on it or to spend the time writing with Rikki but life didn’t really care much for what I wanted *laughs* Thankfully, the bulk of what happened has been sorted as best I can for now and I can focus again on writing. Which means, new chapter for those who have been patient and stuck with us through the long unintended hiatus. 

R: Yeah. It sucked. Hard. But now we’re back, and intend to get this story back on track. We have so much awesome planned for our boys. 

E: So many awesome things. This story is really important to us and we’re determined to tell it. To give it all the attention it deserves.

R: And this chapter is the start of that! Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading! 

E: Thanks everyone!

 


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